Book travel
by Aelinlover
Summary: Jackie gets thrown into acotar as Feyre and decides to change some things, and create a better world with less deaths.Rated M because of some course language(and some adult content). ;)
1. Introduction

Chapter 1, thrown

Jacky was relaxing on her couch re-reading her favorite book series,(Acotar),when the flash of light occured.

Suddenly she found herself in the woods with snow on the ground and with arrows across her back, and a bow in her hand poised to strike.

Then she relised,she had gone into a book,precisely was Feyre. And she found that she saw the wolf and deer and in that moment she decided to live out

Feyres life, but she would change somethings,she would create a better(if only slightly) world.

**A/N: Sorry this is so short! I will try to update every week,Please reciew with suggestions! Hope you liked it! **


	2. Tamlin's Arrival

Chapter 2: Acting

I looked around for the deer and wolf(which I knew would be Andras)and spotted them nearby.I did everything the book Feyre had done and brought them back to

my sisters and father.(**A/N I will refer to them as "My" because saying "the book Feyre's sisters and father" is a bit of a mouthfull(and long to type)**)

(Everything happened as it did in the books ) *time skip to tamlin arrives*

That night I waited in suspense for Tamlin's arrival,I had yet to decide what to do, part of me(the part I called common sense) told me to play it out as it had in the book. However, another part of me,(the part I called foolhardyness and temper) wanted to get back at Tamlin and injure him,not severely mind, but just enough to cause him some payback for what happened to Feyre I supposed, or if you put it another way, what will be happenning to me.

*ten minutes later*

I had decided that I would alter the timeline, if only by a little,I would, first of all hide my ash arrow to prevent tamlin from destroying it,then I gabbed my dagger ready to hurl it at his leg, to deal a wound that, with his fae healing would patch up in no time.

Tamil arrived just as I'd read about, with a slammed door and with my family cowering.

"MURDERERS!" Tamlin shouted and I thought "my my, what a load of drama queens the high lords are!

'MURDERERS!" Tamlin shouted again

"P-please," my father babbled from behind me, failing to find it in himself to come to my side. "Whatever we have done, we did so unknowingly, and—"

"W-w-we didn't kill anyone," Nesta added, choking on her sobs, arm lifted over her head, as if that tiny iron bracelet would do anything against the creature, but even if she had an Iron house it wouldn't have worked as I knew that Iron wasn't the least harmful to fae.

"Get out," I snapped at Tamlin, brandishing the knives before me and chucked it quick as lightning at Tamlin's foot he barely sensed it as it flew and I'd only gotten a scratch on him,I'd fogotten Feyre didnt have her immortal strength yet. "Get out, and begone." Beneth the mask of terror and fury I had on, I felt endlessly amused,here was Tamlin, in need of me falling in love with him, and he thought the best way ro go about wooing me was to terrify my family and me.

He bellowed at me in response, and the entire cottage shook, the plates and cups rattling against one another. My family wimpered, and I felt realy flickers of rage seeping in, bad wooing skills or no,he was terrifying MY family even though they weren't all that plesean, they were still my family and I still cared for them! I just added that to another of the reasons to kill Tamlin in the near future.

Nesta and Elain, weeping, prayed to whatever long-forgotten gods might still be skulking about.

"WHO KILLED HIM?" The creature stalked toward us. He set a paw on the table, and it groaned beneath him. His claws thudded as they embedded in the wood, one by one.

My voice was even as I challenged: "Killed who?", even though I knew perfectly well who.

He growled, low and vicious. "The wolf," he said. The roar was gone, but the wrath lingered—perhaps even traced with sorrow.

Elain's wail reached a high-pitched shriek. I kept my chin up. "A wolf?"

"A large wolf with a gray coat," he snarled in response. Would he know if I lied? Faeries couldn't lie—all mortals knew that,or thought they did, I knew perfectly well that faeries could lie as well as humans,and better than some—but could they smell the lies on human tongues? I knew that only daemati(such as Rysand) had no chance of escaping this through fighting, but there might be other ways.

"If it was mistakenly killed," I said to the beast as calmly as I could, "what payment could we offer in exchange?"

The beast let out a bark that could have been a bitter laugh. He pushed off the table to pace in a small circle before the shattered door. The cold was so intense that I shivered. "The payment you must offer is the one demanded by the Treaty between our realms."I snorted inwardly, that was a lie, a goddamed bloody lie.

"For a wolf?" I retorted, and my father murmured my name in warning. I had vague memories of being read the Treaty during my childhood lessons, but could recall nothing about wolves.

The beast whirled on me. "Who killed the wolf?"

I stared into those jade eyes. "I did."

He blinked and glanced at my sisters, then back at me, at my thinness—no doubt seeing only frailness instead. "Surely you lie to save them."

"We didn't kill anything!" Elain wept. "Please … please, spare us!" Nesta hushed her sharply through her own sobbing, but pushed Elain farther behind her. My chest caved in at the sight of it.

My father climbed to his feet, grunting at the pain in his leg as he bobbled, but before he could limp toward me, I repeated: "I killed it." The beast, who had been sniffing at my sisters, studied me. I squared my shoulders. "I sold its hide at the market today. If I had known it was a faerie, I wouldn't have touched it."

"Liar," he snarled. "You knew. You would have been more tempted to slaughter it had you known it was one of my kind."No,he was wrong there, I'd hoped I didnt have to kill Andras, but... I knew I'd have to.

"Did it attack you? Were you provoked?"

I opened my mouth to say yes, but—"No," I said, letting out a snarl of my own. "But considering all that your kind has done to us, considering what your kind still likes to do to us, even if I had known beyond a doubt, it was deserved." Better to die with my chin held high than groveling like a cowering worm.

Even if his answering growl was the definition of wrath and rage.

The firelight shone upon his exposed fangs, and I wondered how they'd feel on my throat, and how loudly my sisters would scream before they, too, died. But I knew—with a sudden, uncoiling clarity—that Nesta would buy Elain time to run. Not my father, whom she resented with her entire steely heart. Not me, because Nesta had always known and hated that she and I were two sides of the same coin, and that I could fight my own battles. But Elain, the flower-grower, the gentle heart … Nesta would go down swinging for her.

**A/N: This is great right?! Two chapters in one day, I hoped you liked it and please tell me how I could improve and any suggestions in the reviews,I'll try to update every week, Thank you for reading!**


	3. Tamlin's arrival continued

Chapter 3: It begins

"What is the payment the Treaty requires?" I asked, knowing the answer but having to ask it anyways, to see how far he'd lie.

His eyes didn't leave my face as he said, "A life for a life. Any unprovoked attacks on faerie-kind by humans are to be paid only by a human life in exchange." Inside i scoffed at that,I knew it wasn't true.

My sisters quieted their weeping. The mercenary in town had killed a faerie—but had attacked her first. "I didn't know," I said. "Didn't know about that part of the Treaty."because he'd invented it,that selfish bastard.

"Most of you mortals have chosen to forget that part of the Treaty," he said, "which makes punishing you far more enjoyable."

. "Do it outside," I forced myself to whisper, my voice trembling with the effort of not snarling at the lies he spun, or laughing at the sheer ironic-ness(not a word I know but i couldnt find a beter word)As if Tamlin would kill me , his one hope to surviving,I wondered that if he did kill me what state prythian would be in now."Not … here." Not where my family would have to wash away my blood and gore.

The faerie huffed a vicious laugh. "Willing to accept your fate so easily?" When I just stared at him, he said, "For having the nerve to request where I slaughter you, I'll let you in on a secret, human: Prythian must claim your life in some way, for the life you took from it. So as a representative of the immortal realm, I can either gut you like swine, or … you can cross the wall and live out the remainder of your days in Prythian."

I blinked. "What?"

He said slowly, as if I were indeed as stupid as a swine, which he probably though I was."You can either die tonight or offer your life to Prythian by living in it forever, forsaking the human realm."

"Do it, Feyre," my father whispered from behind me. "Go."

I didn't look at him as I said, "Live where?" I wondered If Tamlin actully thought I was so stupid as to go blindly.

"I have lands," the faerie said quietly—almost reluctantly. "I will grant you permission to live there."

"Why bother?" Perhaps a fool's question,but I couldn't resist taunting him,pushing him.

"You murdered my friend," the beast snarled. "Murdered him, skinned his corpse, sold it at the market, and then said he deserved it, and yet you have the nerve to question my generosity?" How typically human, he seemed to silently add.

"You didn't need to mention the loophole." I stepped so close the faerie's breath heated my face. Faeries couldn't lie, but they could omit information.

The beast snarled again. "Foolish of me to forget that humans have such low opinions of us. Do you humans no longer understand mercy?" he said, his fangs inches from my throat. "Let me make this clear for you, girl: you can either come live at my home in Prythian—offer your life for the wolf's in that way—or you can walk outside right now and be shredded to ribbons. Your choice."

My father's hobbling steps sounded before he gripped my shoulder. "Please, good sir—Feyre is my youngest. I beseech you to spare her. She is all … she is all …" But whatever he meant to say died in his throat as the beast roared again. But hearing those few words he'd managed to get out, the effort he'd made … it was like a blade to my belly. My father cringed as he said, "Please—"

"Silence," the creature snapped, and rage boiled up in me so blistering it was an effort to keep from lunging to stab my dagger in his eye. But by the time I had so much as raised my arm, I knew he would have his maw around my I couldn't stand having Tamlin _bite _me,because it would already happen once.

"I can get gold—" my father said, and my rage guttered. The only way he would get money was by begging. Even then, he'd be lucky to get a few coppers. I'd seen how pitiless the well-off were in our village. The monsters in our mortal realm were just as bad as some across the wall.

—

**A/N: This is great right? I can publish every day for a week but then I have to publish once every week, as always,please review with ways I could improve and suggestions for what I should do next?Hope you injoyed it! New storie idaers are also welcome as well.**


	4. Arriving at the spring court

Chapter 4: arrival at spring

Prythian. The word was a death knell that echoed through me again and again.

Lands—he'd said he had lands, but what kind of dwelling? My horse was beautiful and its saddle was crafted of rich leather, which meant he had some sort of contact with civilized life, though I knew that _he _was anything _but _cilvilized.I'd never heard the specifics of what the lives of faeries or High Fae were like—never heard much about anything other than their deadly abilities and appetites from the stories that came for amarantha and the court of nighmares.

There were few firsthand accounts of Prythian itself. The mortals who went over the wall—either willingly as tributes from the Children of the Blessed or stolen—never came back and a good thing too or they would be shunned their entire life.I'd learned most of the legends from villagers, though my father had occasionally offered up a milder tale or two on the nights he made an attempt to remember we existed.

As far as we knew, the High Fae still governed the northern parts of our world—from our enormous island over the narrow sea separating us from the massive continent, across depthless fjords and frozen wastelands and sandblasted deserts, all the way to the great ocean on the other side. Some faerie territories were empires; some were overseen by kings and queens. Then there were places like Prythian, divided and ruled by seven High Lords—beings of such unyielding power that legend claimed they could level buildings, break apart armies, and butcher you before you could blink. I didn't doubt it, because I'd "seen" or read about their power. Especially Rhys's.

No one had ever told me why humans chose to linger in our territory, when so little space had been granted to us and we remained in such close proximity to Prythian. Fools—whatever humans had stayed here after the War must have been suicidal fools to live so close. Even with the centuries-old Treaty between the mortal and faerie realms, there were rifts in the warded wall separating our lands, holes big enough for those lethal creatures to slip into our territory to amuse themselves with tormenting naga prehaps.

That was the side of Prythian that the Children of the Blessed never deigned to acknowledge—perhaps a side of Prythian I'd soon witness. My stomach turned. Live with him, I reminded myself, again and again and again. Live, not though he would kill me from the inside later. Even after I'd saved him. It was an effort to look scared nervous and neutral. The perfect mask.

Though I supposed I could also live in a dungeon. He would likely lock me up and forget that I was there, like he'd done in the books once.

Prowling ahead of me, the beast's horns spiraled toward the night sky, and tendrils of hot breath curled from his snout. We had to make camp at some point; the border of Prythian was days away. Once we stopped, I would keep awake for the entirety of the night and not let him spell me again.

But it was not my own doom I contemplated as I made myself tumble into dread and rage and despair. As we rode on—the only sounds snow crunching beneath paws and hooves—I alternated between a amusement at the situation and a annoyance for not being able to kill tamlin strait away and run to Rhys. I reminded myself that I _had _to die and fight amarantha or none of this would work out. Even though it killed me at the thought of spending half a year with _him_.

. "What manner of faerie are you?" I asked, the words nearly swallowed up by the snow and trees and star-heavy sky.

He didn't bother to turn around. He didn't bother to say anything at all. Fair enough. I'd killed his friend, after all, but he could at least _try _to be nice, he was after all trying to get me to love him.

I tried again. "Are you a high lord?"

A huff of air that could have been a bitter laugh. "Yes I am human, but what does it matter to you?" he sneered. I could have killed him for that alone.

We traveled in silence til the sun was high in the sky, he didnt knock me out this time.

Gritting my teeth, I might have demanded answers from him—might have shouted to where he still lumbered ahead, heedless of me. But then chirping birds flitted past me, and a mild breeze kissed my face. I spied a hedge-bordered metal gate ahead.

My prison or my salvation—I couldn't decide which. It would be my prison at first them my entire world and my life.

Two days—it took two days from my cottage to reach the wall and enter the southernmost border of Prythian.

The gate swung open without porter or sentry, and the beast continued through. Whether I wanted to or not, my horse followed after him.

Chapter 6

The estate sprawled across a rolling green land. I'd never seen anything like it; even our former manor couldn't compare. It was veiled in roses and ivy, with patios and balconies and staircases sprouting from its alabaster sides. The grounds were encased by woods, but stretched so far that I could barely see the distant line of the forest. So much color, so much sunlight and movement and texture … I could hardly drink it in fast enough. To paint it would be useless, would never do it justice.

My awe might have subdued my fear had the place not been so wholly empty and silent. Even the garden through which we walked, following a gravel path to the main doors of the house, seemed hushed and sleeping. Above the array of amethyst irises and pale snowdrops and butter-yellow daffodils swaying in the balmy breeze, the faint stench of metal ticked my nostrils.

Of course it would be magic, because it was spring here. What wretched power did they possess to make their lands so different from ours, to control the seasons and weather as if they owned them? Sweat trickled down my spine as my layers of clothes turned suffocating. I rotated my wrists and shifted in the saddle. Days of traveling had made me stiff all over.

The faerie meandered on ahead, leaping nimbly up the grand marble staircase that led to the giant oak doors in one mighty, fluid movement. The doors swung open for him on silent hinges, and he prowled inside. I foloowed him with a mask of fear, awe and hesitation on my face. In truth I was disgusted and all my instincts were telling me to leave this place of lies and claw out his face but i didn't. Too much was at stake.

I shoved away the fury and terror and disgust as my horse came to a stop of her own accord at the foot of the stairs. The message was clear enough. The towering estate house seemed to be watching, waiting.

—

**A/N: As always, please review with ways to improve and story suggestions , I do ToG , harry potter, sherlock holmes and obviously, ACoTaR. Hope you liked it!**


	5. Masks

Chapter 5: masks

I glanced over my shoulder toward the still-open gates waistfuIly. I knew I couldn't run,but I whished I could... And then remembered that even if I could bolt I wouldn't be able to winnow yet and in my human body I would die I knew.

My knees buckled as I hit the ground, bits of light flashing in my vision. I grasped the saddle and winced as soreness and hunger racked my senses.I left the horse at the bottom of the stairs, taking the steps one at a time. My breath tight in my chest, I passed through the open doors and into the shadows of the house.

Inside, it was even more opulent. Black-and-white checkered marble shone at my feet, flowing to countless doors and a sweeping staircase. A long hall stretched ahead to the giant glass doors at the other end of the house, and through them I glimpsed a second garden, grander than the one out front. No sign of a dungeon—no shouts or pleas rising up from hidden chambers below. No, just the low growl from a nearby room, so deep that it rattled the vases overflowing with fat clusters of hydrangea atop the scattered hall tables. As if in response, an open set of polished wooden doors swung wider to my left. A command to follow.

I'd known the High Fae had once built themselves palaces and temples around the world—buildings that my mortal ancestors had destroyed after the War out of spite—but I'd never considered how they might live today, the elegance and wealth they might possess. Never contemplated that the faeries, these feral monsters, might own estates grander than any mortal dwelling. To hde their cruel hearts.

I entered the room.

A long table—longer than any we'd ever possessed at our manor—filled most of the space. It was laden with food and wine—so much food, some of it wafting tendrils of steam, that my mouth watered. At least it was familiar, and not some strange faerie delicacy: chicken, bread, peas, fish, asparagus, lamb … it could have been a feast at any mortal manor. The beast padded to the oversized chair at the head of the table.

The beast plopped into the chair, the wood groaning, and, in a flash of white light, turned into a golden-haired .

He was young—or at least what I could see of his face seemed young. His nose, cheeks, and brows were covered by an exquisite golden mask embedded with emeralds shaped like whorls of leaves. Crurtsy to Amarantha, no doubt. It left only his eyes—looking the same as they had in his beast form, strong jaw, and mouth for me to see, and the latter tightened into a thin line.

"You should eat something," he said. Unlike the elegance of his mask, the dark green tunic he wore was rather plain, accented only with a leather baldric across his broad chest. It was more for fighting than style, even though he bore no weapons I could detect. Not just one of the High Fae, but … a warrior, too. And a cruel warrior at that I thought t myself as I confidently strode to the table sat down and helped myself to half a glass of wine (**A/N: I am only writing the wine tastes due to books,I am only 12.) **I would need wine to push myself through the _months _ahead.

Who are you?" I managed to say. His light golden hair was so similar to the color of his beast form's pelt. Those giant claws undoubtedly still lurked just below the surface of his didn't answer.

Someone strode past me, heading right for the head of the table.

"Well?" the stranger said—another High Fae: red-haired and finely dressed in a tunic of muted silver. , too, wore a fox mask. He sketched a bow to the seated male and then crossed his arms. Somehow, he hadn't spotted me, or didn't bother to acknowledge my existence.

"Well, what?" Tamlin cocked his head, the movement more animal than human.

"Is Andras dead, then?"

A nod from Tamlin. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"How?" Lucien demanded, his knuckles white as he gripped his muscled arms.

"An ash arrow," said Tamlin His red-haired companion hissed. "The Treaty's summons led me to the mortal. I gave her safe haven."

"A girl—a mortal girl actually killed Andras." Not a question so much as a venom-coated string of words. He glanced at the end of the table, where I was sitting."And the summons found the girl responsible."

Tamlin gave a low, bitter laugh and pointed at me. "The Treaty's magic brought me right to her doorstep."

—-

**A/N: As always please review with ways I could improve and new story idears, I do sherlock holmes ToG, harry potter and ACOTAR. Hope you liked it! **


	6. Lucien

Chapter 6 lucien

The stranger whirled with fluid grace. His mask was bronze and fashioned after a fox's features, concealing all but the lower half of his face—along with most of what looked like a wicked, slashing scar from his brow down to his jaw. It didn't hide the eye that was missing—or the carved golden orb that had replaced it and moved as though he could use it. It fixed on me.

Even from across the room, I could see his remaining russet eye widen. He sniffed once, his lips curling a bit to reveal straight white teeth, and then he turned to the other faerie. "You're joking," he said quietly. "That scrawny thing brought down Andras with a single ash arrow?"

Bastard—an absolute bastard.

"She admitted to it," the golden-haired one said tightly, tracing the rim of his goblet with a finger. A long, lethal claw slid out, scraping against the metal. I kept my breathing steady. Especially as he added, "She didn't try to deny it."

The fox-masked faerie sank onto the edge of the table, the light catching in his long fire-red hair. I could understand his mask, with that brutal scar and missing eye, but the other High Fae seemed fine. Perhaps he wore it out of solidarity. Maybe that explained the absurd fashion. "Well," the red-haired one seethed, "now we're stuck with that, thanks to your useless mercy, and you've ruined—"

I put down my cutlary, fixed my gaze on him and opened my mouth to snap at him but before I could get a word out he said:

"Did you enjoy killing my friend, human?" Lucien said. "Did you hesitate, or was the hatred in your heart riding you too hard to consider sparing him? It must have been so satisfying for a small mortal thing like you to take him down."

The golden-haired one said nothing, but his jaw tightened. As they studied me, I forced myself to keep my mouth shut and appear the _weak,horrible,useless _human, who would _only _save ghem from an _eternity _of Amarantha.

"Anyway," the fox-masked one continued, facing his companion again with a sneer. He would likely laugh if I drew a weapon on him now, but if I did so later,I almost smirked at the irony, now I was at _his _mercy but later... I was more powerfull then him later when I'd had my training, in magic and physical, he was at _my _mercy. he continued "Perhaps there's a way to—"

"Lucien," Tamlin said quietly, the name echoing with a hint of a snarl. "Behave."

Lucien went rigid, but he hopped off the edge of the table and bowed deeply to me. "My apologies, lady." Another joke at my expense. "I'm Lucien. Courtier and emissary." He gestured to me with a flourish. "Your eyes are like stars," how ironic he would say that when I'd desert him and tamil for those stars and night"and your hair like burnished gold."

He cocked his head—waiting for me to give him my name. So I said, " I don't see how its any of your bussiness, but my name is Feyre." I said coldly.

Those striking green eyes of Tamlin's met mine again and then flicked to the door. "Alis will take you to your room. You could use a bath and fresh clothes."

I couldn't decide whether it was an insult or not, but... he had probably just meant it , and we'd already established that he is _terrible _at wooing femals, much like cassian, thinking of cassian made me not want to have to endure _half a year _of Mr I-have-to-protect-everything-even-though-it breaks-them-I-don' was a firm hand at my elbow, and I jumped slightly, having been too lost in my thoughts. A rotund brown-haired woman, the glamor, another reason to add to the long list of reasons to kill tamiln,in a simple brass bird mask tugged on my arm and inclined her head toward the open door behind us. Her white apron was crisp above her homespun brown dress—a .

I'd barely made it a few steps before Lucien growled, "That's the hand the Cauldron thought to deal us? She brought Andras down? We never should have sent him out there—none of them should have been out there. It was a fool's mission." His growl was more bitter than threatening. Could he shape-shift as well?I'd never found out, but... probably not, he probabaly only had his fire. "Maybe we should just take a stand—maybe it's time to say enough. Dump the girl somewhere, kill her, I don't care—she's nothing but a burden here. She'd sooner put a knife in your back than talk to you—or any of us." I kept my breathing calm, my spine locking a cold expression over taking my face, alright, if thats who they thought I was... fine. I would _be _that person, play the cold distrustful human, prehaps only the annoy and fustrate them for my own amusement... but that was how Feyre had acted soooo , I could enjoy myself for a while but... I'd never pondered it before, but I'd have to pretend to fall in love with _tamlin _to break to curse... And have to fuck him. DAMN MY LIFE ! (**A/N : I have not fucked someone ever, ONLY 12! But I'm in Feyre's body so her body tecnically has remember?) **

"No," the other bit out. "Not until we know for certain that there is no other way will we make a move. And as for the girl, she stays. Unharmed. End of discussion. Her life in that hovel was Hell enough." My cheeks heated, even while I loosed a tight breath, and I avoided looking at Alis as I felt her eyes slide to me. A hovel—I suppose that's what our cottage was when compared to this place.

"Then you've got your work cut out for you, old son," Lucien said. "I'm sure her life will be a fine replacement for Andras's—maybe she can even train with the others on the border." I held in a snort of amusement, when I became fae, I was more powerful then most of prythian, As powerfull as a high lord. And if they'd actully trained me on the border, I would have had a _much _easier time fighting Amarantha Under the Mountain.

A snarl of irritation resonated through the air.

The shining, spotless halls swallowed me up before I could hear more.

Alis led me through halls of gold and silver until we came to a lavish bedroom on the second level. I'll admit I didn't fight that hard when Alis and two other servants—also masked—bathed me, cut my hair, and then plucked me until I felt like a chicken being prepared for dinner.

Still, I took one look at the velvet turquoise dress Alis had placed on the bed and turned to her and asked for a pair of pants and a tunic, because as much as I did't mind dresses, riding/fighting was _much _easier in a tunic and pants. After all, if I was in a dress I would have to ride side saddle and that was uncomfterble as had gone out after some debate she had gone to fetch a pair of tunicsand pants(A**/N : I've taken riding lessons since I was 7.)**

The bedroom was larger than our entire cottage. Its walls were pale green, delicately sketched with patterns of gold, and the moldings were golden as well. I might have thought it tacky had the ivory furniture and rugs not complemented it so well. The gigantic bed was of a similar color scheme, and the curtains that hung from the towering headboard drifted in the faint breeze from the open windows. My dressing gown was of the finest silk, edged with lace—simple and exquisite enough that I ran a finger along the lapels.

—

**A/N: I hoped you liked it! As always, please review with story suggestions and ways I could improve. Thanks for reading!**


	7. First day at spring

Chapter 7: first day at the spring court

She returned with trousers and a tunic that fit me well, both of them rich with color. A bit fancy, but I didn't complain when I donned the white shirt, nor when I buttoned the dark blue tunic and ran my hands over the scratchy, golden thread embroidered on the lapels. It had to cost a fortune in itself—and it tugged at that part of my mind that admired lovely and strange and colorful things.

I was too young to remember much before my father's downfall. He'd tolerated me enough to allow me to loiter about his offices, and sometimes even explained various goods and their worth, the details of which I'd long since forgotten. My time in his offices—full of the scents of exotic spices and the music of foreign tongues—made up the majority of my few happy memories. I didn't need to know the worth of everything in this room to understand that the emerald curtains alone—silk, with gold velvet—could have fed us for a lifetime.

A chill scuttled down my spine. It had been days since I'd left. The venison would be running low I wondered if tamlin had given them the money now,or in a few days. I hoped now, so they woulden't starve.

Alis herded me into a low-backed chair before the darkened fireplace, and I didn't fight back as she ran a comb through my hair and began braiding it.

"You're hardly more than skin and bones," she said, her fingers luxurious against my scalp.

"It's hard to hunt animals in winter" I said with a shrug of my shoulders

She gave me a sympathetic glance, then after about 10 minutes"If you're wise, you'll keep your mouth shut and your ears open. It'll do you more good here than a loose tongue. And keep your wits about you—even your senses will try to betray you here."

Alis went on. "Some folk are bound to be upset about Andras. Yet if you ask me, Andras was a good sentinel, but he knew what he would face when he crossed the wall—knew he'd likely find trouble. And the others understand the terms of the Treaty, too—even if they might resent your presence here, thanks to the mercy of our master. So keep your head down, and none of them will bother you. Though Lucien—he could do with someone snapping at him, if you've the courage for it."

I did, and when I went to ask more about whom I should try to avoid, she had already finished with my hair and opened the door to the hall.

Chapter 7

The Tamlin and Lucien were lounging at the table when Alis returned me to the dining room. They no longer had plates before them, but still sipped from their golden goblets. Real gold—not paint or foil. Our mismatched cutlery flashed through my mind as I paused in the middle of the room. Such wealth—such staggering wealth, when we had nothing.

A half-wild beast, Nesta had called me. But compared to him, compared to this place, compared to the elegant, easy way they held their goblets, the way the golden-haired one had called me human … we were all half-wild beasts to the High Fae. Even if they were the ones who could don fur and claws.

Food still remained on the table, the array of spices lingering in the air, beckoning. I was still hungery as I hadn't even begun to eat before Alis had washed me and cleaned me up.

Tamlin's mask gleamed with the last rays of the afternoon sunshine. "Before you ask, the food is safe for you to eat." He pointed to the chair at the other end of the table. No sign of his claws. When I didn't move, all part of my game of the fearful distrustful human: to get them to give up some hope, to turture them sighed sharply. "What do you want, then?"

I said nothing, to infuriate them further.

Lucien drawled from his seat along the length of the table, "I told you so, Tamlin." He flicked a glance toward his friend. "Your skills with females have definitely become rusty in recent decades."

Tamlin glowered at Lucien, shifting in his seat.

Tamlin didn't look much older than me, but fae were immortal. He, as I recalled, was at least 300 years old as he was younger than Rhys as Rhys was 500. My mouth dried up as I carefully studied their strange, masked faces—unearthly, primal, and imperious. Like immovable gods or feral courtiers.

"Well," Lucien said, his remaining russet eye fixed on me, "you don't look half as bad now. A relief, I suppose, since you're to live with us. Though the tunic isn't as pretty as a dress."

I was all too aware of my diction, of the very breath I took as I sated , "I'd prefer not to wear dresses."

"And why not?" Lucien crooned.

It was Tamlin who answered for me. "Because killing us is easier in pants."

I raised a brow the cold expression still on my face, as I said, "Now that I'm here, what … what do you plan to do with me?"

Lucien snorted, but Tamlin said with a snarl of annoyance, "Just sit down."

An empty seat had been pulled out at the end of the table. So many foods, piping hot and wafting those enticing spices. The servants had probably brought out new food while I'd washed. So much wasted. I looked at the spread willing a fearfull and angry cold expression on my face as I didn't move.

"We're not going to bite." Lucien's white teeth gleamed in a way that suggested otherwise. I avoided his gaze, avoided that strange, animated metal eye that focused on me as I inched to my seat and sat down.

Tamlin rose, stalking around the table—closer and closer, each movement smooth and lethal, a predator blooded with power. I kept still—especially as he picked up a dish, brought it over to me, and piled some meat and sauce on my plate.

I said quietly, "I can serve myself." Anything, anything to annoy and frustrate him.

Tamlin paused, so close that one swipe of those claws lurking under his skin could rip my throat out. That was why the leather baldric bore no weapons: why use them when you were a weapon yourself? "It's an honor for a human to be served by a High Fae," he said roughly.I thought being served by Tamlin was worse than being served by a toilet.

He continued piling various foods on my plate, stopping only when it was heaping with meat and sauce and bread, and then filled my glass with pale sparkling wine. I loosed a breath as he prowled back to his seat, though he could probably hear it.

I wanted nothing more than to bury my face in the plate and then eat my way down the table, but I pinned my hands beneath my thighs and stared at the two faeries, to annoy them.

They watched me, too closely to be casual. Tamlin straightened a bit and said, "You look … better than before."

Well that was a piss-poor compliment. I could have sworn Lucien gave Tamlin an encouraging nod.

"And your hair is … clean."

Great, another piss-poor attempt at flattery. Still, I leaned back and kept my words calm and quiet, the way I might speak to any other predetor "Well, which High Lord are you?" I asked

Lucien coughed and looked to Tamlin. "You can take that question."

"Spring" Tamlin said, frowning—as if searching for anything to say to me. He settled on merely: "I am high lord of the spring court."

Fine. A faerie of few words. I had killed his friend, was an unwanted guest. I wouldn't want to talk to me, either.

—-

**A/N: Hoped you liked it! As always, rewiew with ways I could improve and new storie idears, I do Acotar,Tog,harry potter,shelock holmes.**

**Thank you!**


	8. Lucien part 2

p style="text-align: left;"Chapter 8: first night/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"What do you plan to do with me now that I'm here?"/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Tamlin's eyes didn't leave my face. "Nothing. Do whatever you want."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""So I'm not a prisoner?" I dared ask.A taunt for the times ahead./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Lucien choked on his wine. But Tamlin didn't smile. "I don't keep prisoners."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I ignored the release of tightness in my chest at that. "But what am I to do with my life here?" I pressed. "Do you—do you wish me to earn my keep? To work?" A stupid question, if he hadn't considered it, but … but I had to know./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Tamlin stiffened. "What you do with your life isn't my problem."Oh really? I thought./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Lucien pointedly cleared his throat, and Tamlin flashed him a glare. After an exchanged look I read meant "at least try to break your curse"Tamlin sighed and said, "Don't you have any … interests?"/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""No." Not entirely true, but I wasn't about to explain the painting to him. Not when he was apparently having a great deal of trouble just talking to me civilly./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Lucien muttered, "So typically human."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Tamlin's mouth quirked to the side. "Do whatever you want with your time. Just stay out of trouble."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""So you truly mean for me to stay here forever." What I meant was: So I'm to stay in this luxury while my family starves to death?/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""I didn't make the rules," Tamlin said tersely./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""My family is starving," I said. I didn't mind begging—not for this. I'd given my word, and held to that word for so long that I was nothing and no one without it. "Please let me go. There must be—must be some other loophole out of the Treaty's rules—some other way to atone."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Atone?" Lucien said. "Have you even apologized yet?"/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Apparently, all attempts to flatter me were dead and gone. So I looked Lucien right in his remaining russet eye and said, "I'm sorry."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Lucien leaned back in his chair. "How did you kill him? Was it a bloody fight, or just cold-blooded murder?"/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"My spine stiffened. "I shot him with an ash arrow, for food, so my family didnt starve. And then an ordinary arrow through the eye. He didn't put up a fight. After the first shot, he just stared at me."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Yet you killed him anyway—though he made no move to attack you. And then you skinned him," Lucien hissed./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Enough, Lucien," Tamlin said to his courtier with a snarl. "I don't want to hear details." He turned to me, ancient and brutal and unyielding./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I spoke before he could say anything. "My family won't last a month without me." Lucien chuckled, and I gritted my teeth. "Do you know what it's like to be hungry?" I demanded, anger rising to devour any common sense. "Do you know what it's like to not know when your next meal will be?" /p  
div class="bread_336x280" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /div  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;" /p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Tamlin's jaw tightened. "Your family is alive and well-cared for. You think so low of faeries that you believe I'd take their only source of income and nourishment and not replace it?"/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I straightened. "You swear it?" Even if faeries could lie, I had to hear it./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"A low, incredulous laugh. "On everything that I am and possess."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Why not tell me that when we left the cottage?"/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Would you have believed me? Do you even believe me now?" Tamlin's claws embedded in the arms of his chair./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Why should I trust a word you say? You're all masters of spinning your truths to your own advantage."True,true./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Some would say it's unwise to insult a Fae in his home," Tamlin ground out. "Some would say you should be grateful for me finding you before another one of my kind came to claim the debt, for sparing your life and then offering you the chance to live in comfort."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Ha, sparing my life indead. More like sparing it then killing me./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I shot to my feet, wisdom be damned, and was about to kick back my chair when invisible hands clapped on my arms and shoved me back into the seat./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Do not do whatever it was you were contemplating," Tamlin said./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I went still as the tang of magic seared my nose. I tried to twist in the chair, testing the invisible bonds. But my arms were secured, and my back was pressed into the wood so hard that it ached. "Let go of me!" I snareled, another to add to the list of why to kill tamlin./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""I'm going to warn you once," Tamlin said too softly. "Only once, and then it's on you, human. I don't care if you go live somewhere else in Prythian. But if you cross the wall, if you flee, your family will no longer be cared for."How great, just how to woo a human./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"His words were like a stone to the head. If I escaped, if I even tried to run, I might very well doom my family. And even if I dared risk it … even if I succeeded in reaching them, where would I take them? I couldn't stow my sisters away on a ship—and once we arrived somewhere else, somewhere safe, we'd have nowhere to live. But for him to hold my family's well-being against me, to throw away their survival if I stepped out of line …/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I opened my mouth, but his snarl rattled the glasses. "Is that not a fair bargain? And if you flee, then you might not be so lucky with whoever comes to retrieve you next." His claws slipped back under his knuckles. "The food is not enchanted, or drugged, and it will be your own damn fault if you faint. So you're going to sit at this table and eat, Feyre. And Lucien will do his best to be polite." He threw a pointed look in his direction. Lucien shrugged./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"The invisible bonds loosened, and I winced as I whacked my hands on the underside of the table. The bonds on my legs and middle remained intact. One glance at Tamlin's smoldering green eyes told me what I wanted to know: his guest or not, I wasn't going to get up from this table until I'd eaten something. now I eyed the silver fork and carefully picked it up./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"They still watched me—watched my every move, the flare of my nostrils as I sniffed the food on my plate. No metallic stench of magic. And faeries couldn't lie. So he had to be right about the food, then. Stabbing a piece of chicken, I took a bite./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"It was an effort to keep from grunting. I hadn't had food this good in years. Even the meals we'd had before our downfall were little more than ashes compared to this. I ate my entire plate in silence, too aware of the High Fae observing every bite, but as I reached for a second helping of chocolate torte, the food vanished. Just—vanished, as if it had never existed, not a crumb left behind./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Swallowing hard, I set my fork down./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""One more bite and you'll hurl your guts up," Tamlin said, drinking deeply from his goblet./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"The bonds holding me loosened. Silent permission to leave./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Thank you for the meal," I said. It was all I could think of./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Won't you stay for wine?" Lucien said with sweet venom from where he lounged in his seat./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I braced my hands on my chair to rise. "I'm tired. I'd like to sleep."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;""It's been a few decades since I last saw one of you," Lucien drawled, "but you humans never change, so I don't think I'm wrong in asking why you find our company to be so unpleasant, when surely the men back home aren't much to look at."/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"At the other end of the table, Tamlin gave his emissary a long, warning look. Lucien ignored it.I just raised my brows at them./p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"—/p  
p style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.5 !important;"strongA/N: Hope you like it, as always, review with new idears and how I could improve. Thanks for reading!/strong/p 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9:

I sat at the table and studied the porridge and eggs and bacon—bacon. Again, such similar food to what we ate across the wall, and yet way better. Alis poured me a cup of what looked and smelled like tea: full-bodied, aromatic tea, no doubt imported at great expense. Prythian and my adjoining homeland weren't exactly easy to reach. "What is this place?" I asked her quietly. "Where is this place?"

"It's safe, and that's all you need to know," Alis said, setting down the teapot. "At least the house is. If you go poking about the grounds, keep your wits about you."

Fine—if she wouldn't answer that … I tried again. "What sort of—faeries should I look out for?"

"All of them," Alis said. "My master's protection only goes so far. They'll want to hunt and kill you just for being a human—regardless of what you did to Andras."

Another useless answer. I dug into my breakfast, savoring each rich sip of tea, and she slipped into the bathing chamber. When I was done eating and bathing, I refused Alis's offer and dressed myself in another exquisite tunic—this one of purple so deep it could have been black. I wished I knew the name for the color, but cataloged it anyway. I pulled on the brown boots I'd worn the night before, and as I sat before a marble vanity letting Alis braid my wet hair, I cringed at my reflection.

It wasn't pleasing—though not for its actual appearance. While my nose was relatively straight, it was the other feature I'd inherited from my mother. I could still remember how her nose would crinkle with feigned amusement when one of her fabulously wealthy friends made some unfunny joke.

At least I had my father's soft mouth, though it made a mockery of my too-sharp cheekbones and hollow cheeks. I couldn't bring myself to look at my slightly uptilted eyes. I knew I'd see Nesta or my mother looking back at me. I'd sometimes wondered if that was why my sister had insulted me about my looks. I was a far cry from ugly, but … I bore too much of the people we'd hated and loved for Nesta to stand it. For me to stand it, too.

Though I supposed that for Tamlin—for High Fae used to ethereal, flawless beauty—it had been a struggle to find a compliment. Faerie bastard.

Alis finished my plait, and I jumped from the bench before she could weave in little flowers from the basket she'd brought. I would have lived up to my namesake were it not for the effects of poverty, but I'd never particularly cared. Beauty didn't mean anything in the forest.

When I asked Alis what I was to do now—what I was to do with the entirety of my life—she shrugged and suggested a walk in the gardens.

The halls were silent and empty—strange for such a large estate. They'd mentioned others the night before, but I saw and heard no sign of them. A balmy breeze scented with … hyacinth, I realized—if only from Elain's small garden—floated down the halls, carrying with it the pleasant chirping of a bunting, a bird I wouldn't hear back home for months. I always liked gardens.

I was almost to the grand staircase when I noticed the paintings.

I hadn't let myself really look yesterday, but now, in the empty hall with no one to see me … a flash of color amid a shadowy, gloomy background made me stop, a riot of color and texture that compelled me to face the gilded frame.

I'd never—never—seen anything like it.

It's just a still life, a part of me said. And it was: a green glass vase with an assortment of flowers drooping over its narrow top, blossoms and leaves of every shape and size and color—roses, tulips, morning glory, goldenrod, maiden's lace, peonies …

Very nicely done though.

The skill it must have taken to make them look so lifelike, to make them more than lifelike … Just a vase of flowers against a dark background—but more than that; the flowers seemed to be vibrant with their own light, as if in defiance of the shadows gathered around them. The mastery needed to make the glass vase hold that light, to bend the light with the water within, as if the vase did indeed have weight to it atop its stone pedestal … Remarkable.

I could have stared at it for hours—and the countless paintings along this hall alone could have occupied my entire day—but … garden. Plans.

Still, as I moved on, I couldn't deny that this place was Peaceful, even, if I was willing to admit the people... Horrible.

"You," someone said, and I jumped back a step. In the light of the open glass doors to the garden, a towering male figure stood silhouetted before me.

Tamlin. He wore those warrior's clothes, cut close to show off his toned body, and three simple knives were now sheathed along his baldric—each long enough to look like it could gut me as easily as his beast's claws. His blond hair had been tied back from his face, revealing those pointed ears and that strange, beautiful mask. "Where are you going?" he said, gruffly enough that it almost sounded like a demand. You—I wondered if he even remembered my name.

"Good morning," I said flatly. At least it was a better greeting than You. "You said my time was to be spent however I wanted. I didn't realize I was under house arrest."Which he would eventually do. Ironic.

His jaw tightened. "Of course you're not under house arrest." Even as he bit out the words, I couldn't ignore the sheer male beauty of that strong jaw, the richness of his golden-tan skin. He was probably handsome ish.

When he realized that I wasn't going to respond, he bared his teeth in what I supposed was an attempt at a smile and said, "Do you want a tour?"

"No, thank you," I managed to get out, conscious of every awkward motion of my body as I edged around him.

He stepped into my path—close enough that he conceded a step back. "I've been sitting inside all morning. I need some fresh air." And you're insignificant enough that you wouldn't be a bother. Yay for him, so good at flattery.

"I'm fine," I said, casually dodging him. "You've … been generous enough." I tried to sound like I meant it.

A half smile, not so pleasant, no doubt unused to being denied. "Do you have some sort of problem with me?"

"No," I said quietly, and walked through the doors.

He let out a low snarl. "I'm not going to kill you, Feyre. I don't break my promises."

I almost stumbled down the garden steps as I glanced over my shoulder. He stood atop the stairs, as solid and ancient as the pale stones of the manor. "Kill, not harm?so people here can torture me to the brink of death? " I taunted

They're under orders not to even touch you."

"Yet I'm still trapped in your realm, for breaking a rule I didn't know existed. Why was your friend even in the woods that day? I thought the Treaty banned your kind from entering our lands."

He just stared at me. Perhaps I'd gone too far, questioned him too much. Perhaps he could tell why I'd really asked. To taunt him.

"That Treaty," he said quietly, "doesn't ban us from doing anything, except for enslaving you. The wall is an inconvenience. If we cared to, we could shatter it and march through to kill you all."

I might be forced to live in Prythian forever, but my family … I dared ask, "And do you care to destroy the wall?"

He looked me up and down, as if deciding whether I was worth the effort of explaining. "I have no interest in the mortal lands, though I can't speak for my kind."

But he still hadn't answered my question. "Then what was your friend doing there?"

Tamlin stilled. Such unearthly, primal grace, even to his breathing. "There is … a sickness in these lands. " Oh yeah, Amarantha."Across Prythian. There has been for almost fifty years now. It is why this house and these lands are so empty: most have left. The blight spreads slowly, but it has made magic act … strangely. " Lovely explanation of how Amarantha cursed and kills people."My own powers are diminished due to it. These masks"—he tapped on his—"are the result of a surge of it that occurred during a masquerade forty-nine years ago. Even now, we can't remove them."Surge? *mental eyerole*

Stuck in masks—for nearly fifty years. I would have gone mad, would have peeled my skin off my face. "You didn't have a mask as a beast—and neither did your friend."

"The blight is cruel like that." you mean Amarantha is cruel like that.

Either live as a beast, or live with the mask. "What—what sort of sickness is it?"

"It's not a disease—not a plague or illness. It's focused solely on magic, on those dwelling in Prythian. Andras was across the wall that day because I sent him to search for a cure."

"Can it hurt humans?" My stomach twisted. "Will it spread over the wall?" more like Amarantha enjoys killing humans for sport.

"Yes," he said. "There is … a chance of it affecting mortals, and your territory. More than that, I don't know. It's slow-moving, and your kind is safe for now. We haven't had any progression in decades—magic seems to have stabilized, even though it's been weakened."

"A mercenary told me she believed faeries might be thinking of attacking. Is it related?"

A hint of a smile, perhaps a bit surprised. "I don't know. Do you talk to mercenaries often?"

"I talk to whoever bothers to tell me anything useful."

—-

**A/N: Hope you liked it! As always, please review with ways I could improve and new story idears! I do Acotar, ToG, harry potter and serlock holmes.**


	10. Riding with Lucien

Chapter 10 :

I meandered through the exquisite and silent gardens,lost in though of what I was doing what I would have do...

Though Lucien—he could do with someone snapping at him, if you've the courage for it, Alis had said to me yesterday.

I approached a bench in an alcove blooming with foxglove when the sound of steps on shifting gravel filled the air. Two pairs of light, quick feet. I straightened, peering down the way I'd come, but the path was empty.

I lingered at the edge of an open field of lanky meadow buttercups. The vibrant green-and-yellow field was deserted. Behind me arose a gnarled crab apple tree in full, glorious bloom, the petals of its flowers littering the shaded bench on which I'd been about to sit. A breeze set the branches rustling, a waterfall of white petals flittering down like snow.

I scanned the garden, the field—carefully, carefully watching and listening for those two sets of feet.

There was nothing in the tree, or behind it.

A prickling sensation ran down my spine. I'd spent enough time in the woods to trust my instincts.

Someone stood behind me—perhaps two of them. A faint sniff and a quiet giggle issued from far too close. My heart leaped into my throat.I knew that was part of the glamour Tamlin had put on me. Just another reason to kill him later.

The gravel crunched, nearer now. The shimmering in the corner of my eye grew larger, separating into two small figures no taller than my waist. My hands clenched into fists.

"Feyre!" Alis's voice cut across the garden. "Feyre, lunch!" she hollered. I walked back to the mansion.

At dinner that night I found myself staring at lucien thinking about how we, and he had changed over the course of the books/ a year.

Lucien paused, and I found him smirking at me, making the scar even more brutal. "Were you admiring my sword, or just contemplating killing me, Feyre?"

"Of course not," I said and glanced at Tamlin. The gold flecks in his eyes glowed, even from the other end of the table.

His lazy, vicious grin was still there. Oh what would I give to have my fae body and magic and wipe that smirk right off his face.

Tamlin broke the silence. "Feyre likes to hunt."

"I don't like to hunt." I should have probably used a more polite tone, but I went on. "I hunted out of necessity. And how did you know that?"

Tamlin's stare was bald, assessing. "Why else were you in the woods that day? You had a bow and arrows in your … house." I wondered whether he'd almost said hovel. "When I saw your father's hands, I knew he wasn't the one using them." He gestured to my scarred, callused hands. "You told him about the rations and money from pelts. Faeries might be many things, but we're not stupid. Unless your ridiculous legends claim that about us, too."

Ridiculous, insignificant.

Lucien cleared his throat. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Nineteen." I longned to add " not that its any of your bussiness." but I didnt.

.Lucien tsked. "So young, and so grave. And a skilled killer already."

So I said, "So is this what you do with your lives? Spare humans from the Treaty and have fine meals?"and ruin people's lives. I gave a pointed glance toward Tamlin's baldric, the warrior's clothes, Lucien's sword.

Lucien smirked. "We also dance with the spirits under the full moon and snatch human babes from their cradles to replace them with changelings—" Lovely.

"Didn't …," Tamlin interrupted, his deep voice surprisingly gentle, "didn't your mother tell you anything about us?"

. "My mother didn't have the time to tell me stories." I could reveal that part of my past, at least.

Lucien, for once, didn't laugh. Ah, the lady of the autume court...After a rather stilted pause, Tamlin asked, "How did she die?" When I lifted my brows, he added a bit more softly, "I didn't see signs of an older woman in your house."

Predator or not, I didn't need his pity. But I said, "Typhus. When I was eight." I rose from my seat to leave.

"Feyre," Tamlin said, and I half turned. A muscle feathered in his cheek.

Lucien glanced between us, that metal eye roving, but kept silent. Then Tamlin shook his head, the movement more animal than anything, and murmured, "I'm sorry for your loss."

I tried to keep from grimacing as I turned on my heel and left. I didn't want or need his condolences—not for my mother, not when I hadn't missed her in years. Let Tamlin dismiss me as a rude, uncouth human not worth his careful watch.

I'd be better off persuading Lucien to speak to Tamlin on my behalf—and soon, before any of the others whom they'd mentioned appeared, or this blight of theirs grew. Tomorrow—I'd speak to Lucien then, test him out a bit.

Chapter 9

A casual question tossed in Alis's direction had her revealing that she believed Lucien was on border patrol today—and would be at the stables, preparing to leave.

Morning, Feyre." I tried to hide the stiffening in my shoulders, tried to smile a bit. "Going for a ride, or merely reconsidering Tam's offer to live with us?" I tried to recall the words I'd come up with earlier, the words to win him, but he laughed—and not pleasantly. "Come now. I'm to patrol the southern woods today, and I'm curious about the … abilities you used to bring down my friend, whether accidental or not. It's been a while since I encountered a human, let alone a Fae-killer. Indulge me in a hunt."

Perfect—at least that part of this had gone well, even if it sounded as lovely as facing a bear in its den. So I stepped aside to let a stableboy pass. He moved with a fluid smoothness, like all of them here. And didn't look at me, either—no indication at all of what he thought of having a Fae-killer in his stable.

But my kind of hunting couldn't be done on horseback. Mine consisted of careful stalking and well-laid traps and snares. I didn't know how to give chase atop a horse. Lucien accepted a quiver of arrows from the returning stableboy with a nod of thanks. Lucien smiled in a way that didn't meet that metal eye—or the russet one. "No ash arrows today, unfortunately."

I clenched my jaw to keep from rolling my eyes. So I shrugged, looking as bored as I could. "Well … I suppose I'm already dressed for a hunt."

"Perfect," Lucien said, his metal eye gleaming in the sunlight slanting in through the open stable doors. I prayed Tamlin wouldn't come prowling through them—prayed he wouldn't decide to go for a ride on his own and catch us here.

"Let's go, then," I said, and Lucien motioned for them to prepare a horse. I leaned against a wooden wall as I waited, keeping an eye on the doorway for signs of Tamlin, and offered my own bland replies to Lucien's remarks about the weather.

Mercifully, I was soon astride a white mare, riding with Lucien through the spring-shrouded woods beyond the gardens. I kept a healthy distance from the fox-masked faerie on the broad path, hoping that eye of his couldn't see through the back of his head.

The thought didn't sit well, and I shoved it away—along with the part of me that marveled at the way the sun illuminated the leaves, and the clusters of crocuses that grew like flashes of vibrant purple against the brown and green.

"Well, you certainly have the quiet part of hunting down," Lucien said, falling back to ride beside me. I adjusted the weight of the quiver strap across my chest, then ran a finger along the smooth curve of the yew bow in my lap. The bow was larger than the one I used at home, the arrows heavier and heads thicker. I would probably miss whatever target I found until I adjusted to the weight and balance of the bow.

Five years ago I'd taken the very last of my father's coppers from our former fortune to purchase my bow and arrows. I'd since allotted a small sum every month for arrows and replacement strings.

"Well?" Lucien pressed. "No game good enough for you to slaughter? We've passed plenty of squirrels and birds." The canopy above cast shadows upon his fox mask—light and dark and gleaming metal.

"You seem to have enough food on your table that I don't need to add to it, especially when there's always plenty left over." I doubted squirrel would be good enough for their table.

Lucien snorted but didn't say anything else as we passed beneath a flowering lilac, its purple cones drooping low enough to graze my cheek like cool, velvety fingers. The sweet, crisp scent lingered in my nose even as we rode on.

"You said you were an emissary for Tamlin," I ventured. "Do emissaries usually patrol the grounds?" A casual, disinterested question.

Lucien clicked his tongue. "I'm Tamlin's emissary for formal uses, but this was Andras's shift. So someone needed to fill in. It's an honor to do it."

I swallowed hard. Andras had a place here, and friends here—he hadn't been just some nameless, faceless faerie. No doubt he was more missed than I was. "I'm … sorry," I said—and meant it. "I didn't know what—what he meant to you all."Truth and lies, thuth and lies I was sorry, but I had known what andras had meant.

Lucien shrugged. "Tamlin said as much, which was no doubt why he brought you here. Or maybe you looked so pathetic in those rags that he took pity on you."

"I wouldn't have joined you if I'd known you would use this ride as an excuse to insult me." Alis had mentioned that Lucien could use someone who snapped back at him. Easy enough.

Lucien smirked. "Apologies, Feyre."

"So," he said, "when are you going to start trying to persuade me to beseech Tamlin to find a way to free you from the Treaty's rules?"

I just raised my eyebrows. "what on earh do you mean? I drawled.

"That's why you agreed to come out here, isn't it? Why you wound up at the stables exactly as I was leaving?" He shot me a sideways glance with that russet eye of his. "Honestly, I'm impressed—and flattered you think I have that kind of sway with Tamlin."

'Trust me, I know you don't." like when I was wasting away and Tamlin didn't listen to lucien at all.

His cocked head was answer enough. He chuckled and said, "Before you waste one of your precious few human breaths, let me explain two things to you. One: if I had my way, you'd be gone, so it wouldn't take much convincing on your part. Two: I can't have my way, because there is no alternative to what the Treaty demands. There's no extra loophole."

"I admire your balls, Feyre—I really do. Or maybe it's stupidity. But since Tam won't gut you, which was my first choice, you're stuck here. Unless you want to rough it on your own in Prythian, which"—he looked me up and down—"I'd advise against."

"A valiant effort," Lucien said with a smirk.

We rode on in silence, and aside from a few birds and squirrels, I saw nothing—heard nothing—unusual. After a few minutes I'd quieted my riotous thoughts enough to say, "Where is the rest of Tamlin's court? They all fled this blight on magic?"ha blight my ass.

"How'd you know about the court?" he asked so quickly that I realized he thought I meant something else.

I kept my face blank. "Do normal estates have emissaries? And servants chatter. Isn't that why you made them wear bird masks to that party?"

Lucien scowled, that scar stretching. "We each chose what to wear that night to honor Tamlin's shape-shifting gifts. The servants, too. But now, if we had the choice, we'd peel them off with our bare hands," he said, tugging on his own. It didn't move.

"What happened to the magic to make it act that way?"

Lucien let out a harsh laugh. "Something was sent from the shit-holes of Hell," he said, then glanced around and swore. "I shouldn't have said that. If word got back to her—"

"Who?"Amarantha.

—

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review with ways I could improve and new story idear. Thank you! I will update every week.**


	11. The bogge

Chapter 11 : the bogge

My blood froze as a creeping, leeching cold lurched by. I couldn't see anything, just a vague shimmering in the corner of my vision, but my horse stiffened beneath me. I willed my face into blankness. Even the balmy spring woods seemed to recoil, to wither and freeze.

The bogge whispered past, circling. I could see nothing, but I could feel it. And in the back of my mind, an ancient, hollow voice whispered:

I will grind your bones between my claws; I will drink your marrow; I will feast on your flesh. I am what you fear; I am what you dread … Look at me. Look at me.

I kept my eyes on the trees, on the canopy, on anything but the cold mass circling us again and again.

Look at me.

Look at me.

I stared at the coarse trunk of a distant elm, thinking of pleasant things. Like how cassian always fought with nest, and how on solstice Amren had argued with the others about how she hadn't been able to go to the loo.

I will fill my belly with you. I will devour you. Look at me.

A starry, unclouded night sky, peaceful and glittering and endless. Summer sunrise. A refreshing bath in a forest pool. Meetings with Isaac, losing myself for an hour or two in his body, in our shared breaths.

It was all around us, so cold that my teeth chattered. Look at me.

I stared and stared at that ever-nearing tree trunk.

Look at me.

And just as I thought I would give in, when my eyes hurt so much from not looking, the cold disappeared into the brush, leaving a trail of still, recoiling plants behind it. Only after Lucien exhaled and our horses shook their heads did I dare sag in my seat. Even the crocuses seemed to straighten again.

"What was that?" I asked, brushing the tears from my face.

Lucien's face was still pale. "You don't want to know."

"Was it that … Suriel you mentioned?"No, the bogge

Lucien's russet eye was dark as he answered hoarsely. "No. It was a creature that should not be in these lands. We call it the Bogge. You cannot hunt it, and you cannot kill it. Even with your beloved ash arrows."

"Why can't I look at it?"

"Because when you look at it—when you acknowledge it—that's when it becomes real. That's when it can kill you."

A shiver spider-walked down my spine. This was the Prythian I'd expected—the creatures that made humans speak of them in hushed tones even now. The reason I hadn't hesitated, not for a heartbeat, when I'd considered the possibility of that wolf being a faerie. "I heard its voice in my head. It told me to look."

Lucien rolled his shoulders. "Well, thank the Cauldron that you didn't. Cleaning up that mess would have ruined the rest of my day." He gave me a wan smile. I returned it.

After an hour of meandering through the trees, hardly speaking to each other, I'd stopped trembling enough to turn to him.

"So you're old," I said. "And you carry around a sword, and go on border patrol. Did you fight in the War?" I couldn't actully remember.

He winced. "Shit, Feyre—I'm not that old."

"Are you a warrior, though?" yes he was I think.

Lucien huffed a laugh. "Not as good as Tam, but I know how to handle my weapons." He patted the hilt of his sword. "Would you like me to teach you how to wield a blade, or do you already know how, oh mighty mortal huntress? If you took down Andras, you probably don't need to learn anything. Only where to aim, right?" He tapped on his chest.

"I don't know how to use a sword. I only know how to hunt."I said keeping the snarl out of my voice.

Same thing, isn't it?"

"For me it's different."

Lucien fell silent, considering. "I suppose you humans are such hateful cowards that you would have wet yourself, curled up, and waited to die if you'd known beyond a doubt what Andras truly was." Insufferable. Lucien sighed as he looked me over. "Do you ever stop being so serious and dull?"

"Do you ever stop being such a prick?" I snapped back.

But Lucien grinned at me. "Much better."

Whatever tentative truce we built that afternoon vanished at the dinner table.

Tamlin was lounging in his usual seat, a long claw out and circling his goblet. It paused on the lip as soon as I entered, Lucien on my heels. His green eyes pinned me to the spot.

Right. I'd brushed him off that morning, claiming I wanted to be , now he would think that Lucien was flirting with me, amusing.

Tamlin slowly looked at Lucien, whose face had turned grave. "We went on a hunt," Lucien said.

"I heard," Tamlin said roughly, glancing between us as we took our seats. "And did you have fun?" Slowly, his claw sank back into his flesh.

Lucien didn't answer, leaving it to me. Coward. I cleared my throat. "Sort of," I said.

"Did you catch anything?" Every word was clipped out.

"No." Lucien gave me a pointed cough, as if urging me to say more.

But I had nothing to say. Tamlin stared at me for a long moment, then dug into his food, not all that interested in talking to me, either.

Then Lucien quietly said, "Tam."

Tamlin looked up, more animal than fae in those green eyes. A demand for whatever it was Lucien had to say.

Lucien's throat bobbed. "The Bogge was in the forest today."

The fork in Tamlin's hand folded in on itself. He said with lethal calm, "You ran into it?"

Lucien nodded. "It moved past but came close. It must have snuck through the border."

Metal groaned as Tamlin's claws punched out, obliterating the fork. He rose to his feet with a powerful, brutal movement. He said, "Where in the forest?"

Lucien told him. Tamlin threw a glance in my direction before stalking out of the room and shutting the door behind him with unnerving gentleness.

Lucien loosed a breath, pushing away his half-eaten food and rubbing at his temples.

"Where is he going?" I asked, staring toward the door.

"To hunt the Bogge."

"You said it couldn't be killed—that you can't face it."

"Tam can."

"So he went to hunt the Bogge where we were earlier today?"

Lucien shrugged. "If he's going to pick up a trail, it would be there.".

And just because Lucien wasn't going to eat anymore didn't mean I wouldn't. Lucien, lost in thought, didn't even notice the feast I downed.

—

**A/N : Thank you for reading! As always, please review with ways I could improve and new story idears. Hope you enjoyed !**


	12. Cleaning tamlin's Hand

Chapter 12 :

Over the next three days, I found myself joining Lucien on Andras's old patrol while Tamlin hunted the grounds for the Bogge, unseen by us. Despite being an occasional bastard, Lucien didn't seem to mind my company, and he did most of the talking, which was fine; it left me to brood over the consequences of firing a single arrow.

An arrow. I never fired a single one during those three days we rode along the border. That very morning I'd spied a red doe in a glen and aimed out of instinct, my arrow poised to fly right into her eye as Lucien sneered that she was not a faerie, at least. But I'd stared at her—fat and healthy and content—and then slackened the bow, replaced the arrow in my quiver, and let the doe wander on.

I never saw Tamlin around the manor—off hunting the Bogge day and night, Lucien informed me. Even at dinner, he spoke little before leaving early—off to continue his hunt, night after night. I didn't mind his absence. It was a relief, if anything.

On the third night after my encounter with the puca, I'd scarcely sat down before Tamlin got up, giving an excuse about not wanting to waste hunting time.

Lucien and I stared after him for a moment.

What I could see of Lucien's face was pale and tight. "You worry about him," I said.

Lucien slumped in his seat, wholly undignified for a Fae lord and said . "Tamlin gets into … moods." And has _very _severe anger issues.

"He doesn't want your help hunting the Bogge?"

"He prefers being alone. And having the Bogge on our lands … I don't suppose you'd understand. The puca are minor enough not to bother him, but even after he's shredded the Bogge, he'll brood over it."

"And there's no one who can help him at all?"

"He would probably shred them for disobeying his order to stay away."

A brush of ice slithered across my nape. "He would be that brutal?"

Lucien studied the wine in his goblet. "You don't hold on to power by being everyone's friend. And among the faeries, lesser and High Fae alike, a firm hand is needed. We're too powerful, and too bored with immortality, to be checked by anything else." Liar, wasn't Rhys like that with _his _court of dreams? It was only because the sping court had such mean, power-hungry people that it had to be like that.

It seemed like a cold, lonely position to have, especially when you didn't particularly want it. Unless u r like Rhys.

The snow was falling, thick and merciless, already up to my knees as I pulled the bowstring back—farther and farther, until my arm trembled. Behind me, a shadow lurked—no, watched. I didn't dare turn to look at it, to see who might be within that shadow, observing, not as the wolf stared at me across the clearing.

Just staring. As if waiting, as if daring me to fire the ash arrow.

No—no, I didn't want to do it, not this time, not again, not—

But I had no control over my fingers, absolutely none, and he was still staring as I fired.

One shot—one shot straight through that golden eye.

A plume of blood splattering the snow, a thud of a heavy body, a sigh of wind. No.

It wasn't a wolf that hit the snow—no, it was a man, tall and well formed.

No—not a man. A High Fae, with those pointed ears.

I blinked, and then—then my hands were warm and sticky with blood, then his body was red and skinless, steaming in the cold, and it was his skin—his skin—that I held in my hands, and—

I threw myself awake, sweat slipping down my back, and forced myself to breathe, to open my eyes and note each detail of the night-dark bedroom. Real—this was real. And I'd had to kill Andras, It was essential, essential I told myself.. but.. the guilt still lingered.

Not real. Just a dream. Even if what I'd done to Andras, even as a wolf, was … was …

I got up from bed washed my face, then remebered that Tamlin would be coming home about now and that I needed to go and clean up his hand. Great. What excuse should I give? I wasn't illiterate, and (no offence to Feyre ) but would die if someone thought I was illiterate. I'll say I was getting a snack, Yeah!

A breeze announced his arrival—and I turned from the table toward the long hall, to the open glass doors to the garden.

I'd forgotten how huge he was in this form—forgotten the curled horns and lupine face, the bearlike body that moved with a feline fluidity. His green eyes glowed in the darkness, fixing on me, and as the doors snicked shut behind him, the clicking of claws on marble filled the hall. I stood still—not daring to flinch.

He limped slightly. And in the moonlight, dark, shining stains were left in his wake.

He continued toward me, stealing the air from the entire hall. He was so big that the space felt cramped, like a cage. The scrape of claw, a huff of uneven breathing, the dripping of blood.

Between one step and the next, he changed forms, and I squeezed my eyes shut at the blinding flash. When at last my eyes adjusted to the returning darkness, he was standing in front of me.

Standing, but—not quite there. No sign of the baldric, or his knives. His clothes were in shreds—long, vicious slashes that made me wonder how he wasn't gutted and dead. But the muscled skin peering out beneath his shirt was smooth, unharmed.

"Did you kill the Bogge?" My voice was gental, soothing, even though if I'd had my way It would hve been sharp and cold.

"Yes." A dull, empty answer. As if he couldn't be bothered to remember to be pleasant. As if I were at the very, very bottom of a long list of priorities.

"You're hurt," I said quietly.

Indeed, his hand was covered in blood, even more splattering on the floor beneath him. He looked at it blankly—as if it took some monumental effort to remember that he even had a hand, and that it was injured. What effort of will and strength had it taken to kill the Bogge, to face that wretched menace? How deep had he had to dig inside himself—to whatever immortal power and animal that lived there—to kill it?

Drip, drip, drip.

Another splatter of blood on the marble. "Where can we clean up your hand?"

He lifted his head to look at me again. Still and silent and weary. Then he said, "There's a small infirmary."

I wanted to tell myself that it was probably the most useful thing I'd learned all night. But as I followed him there, avoiding the blood he trailed, I thought of what Lucien had told me about his isolation, that burden, thought of what Tamlin had mentioned about how these estates should not have been his, and felt … sorry for him. It didn't exuse his actions kn the future and past but... I still felt a little bad for him. and the state he was in after AcoFaS.

The infirmary was well stocked, but was more of a supply closet with a worktable than an actual place to host sick faeries. I supposed that was all they needed when they could heal themselves with their immortal powers. But this wound—this wound wasn't healing.

Tamlin slumped against the edge of the table, gripping his injured hand at the wrist as he watched me sort through the supplies in the cabinets and drawers. When I'd gathered what I needed, I tried not to balk at the thought of touching him, but … I didn't let myself give in to my dread as I took his hand, the heat of his skin like an inferno against my cool fingers.

I cleaned off his bloody, dirty hand, bracing for the first flash of those claws. But his claws remained retracted, and he kept silent as I bound and wrapped his hand—surprisingly enough, there were no more than a few vicious cuts, none of them requiring stitching.

I secured the bandage in place and stepped away, bringing the bowl of bloody water to the deep sink in the back of the room. His eyes were a brand upon me as I finished cleaning, and the room became too small, too hot. He'd killed the Bogge and walked away relatively unscathed.

I was almost at the open door when he said, "How did you learn to hunt, to survive?"

I paused with my foot on the threshold. "That's what happens when you're responsible for lives other than your own, isn't it? You do what you have to do."

He was still sitting on the table, still straddling that inner line between the here and now and wherever he'd had to go in his mind to endure the fight with the Bogge. I met his feral and glowing stare.

"You aren't what I expected—for a human," he said.

I didn't reply. And he didn't say good-bye as I walked out.

The next morning, as I made my way down the grand staircase, I tried not to think too much about the clean-washed marble tiles on the floor below—no sign of the blood Tamlin had lost. I tried not to think too much at all about our encounter, actually.

When I found the front hall empty, I almost smiled—felt a ripple in that hollow emptiness that had been hounding me. Perhaps now, perhaps in this moment of quiet, I could at last look through the art on the walls, take time to observe it, learn it, admire it.

—

**A/N :Happy Easter! Please reveiw with story idears And hope you enjoyed!**


	13. Overhearing

Chapter 13:The first overheard conversation

Heart racing at the thought, I was about to head toward a hall I had noted was nearly covered in painting after painting when low male voices floated out from the dining room.

I paused. The voices were tense enough that I made my steps silent as I slid into the shadows behind the open door. A cowardly, wretched thing to do—but that was what they had wanted me to do— to over hear.

"I just want to know what you think you're doing." It was Lucien—that familiar lazy viciousness coating each word.

"What are you doing?" Tamlin snapped. Through the space between the hinge and the door I could glimpse the two of them standing almost face-to-face. On Tamlin's nonbandaged hand, his claws shone in the morning light.

"Me?" Lucien put a hand on his chest. "By the Cauldron, Tam—there isn't much time, and you're just sulking and glowering. You're not even trying to fake it anymore."

Tamlin turned away but whirled back a moment later, his teeth bared. "It was a mistake from the start. I can't stomach it, not after what my father did to their kind, to their lands. I won't follow in his footsteps—won't be that sort of person. So back off."

"Back off? Back off while you seal our fates and ruin everything? I stayed with you out of hope, not to watch you stumble. For someone with a heart of stone, yours is certainly soft these days." Ah, they had sented me, the heart of stone clues... Ah. "The Bogge was on our lands—the Bogge, Tamlin! The barriers between courts have vanished, and even our woods are teeming with filth like the puca. Are you just going to start living out there, slaughtering every bit of vermin that slinks in?"

"Watch your mouth," Tamlin said.

Lucien stepped toward him, exposing his teeth as well. A pulsing kind of air hit me in the stomach, and a metallic stench filled my nose. But I couldn't see any magic—only feel it. I couldn't tell if that made it worse.

"Don't push me, Lucien." Tamlin's tone became dangerously quiet, and the hair on the back of my neck stood as he emitted a growl that was pure animal. "You think I don't know what's happening on my own lands? What I've got to lose? What's lost already?"

I stepped toward the threshold, clearing my throat as I came up with a dozen excuses to shield myself. I looked at Lucien and forced myself to smile. His eyes widened, and I had to wonder if it was because of that smile, or because I looked truly guilty. "Are you going out for a ride?" I said, feeling a bit sick as I gestured behind me with a thumb. I hadn't planned on riding with him today, but it sounded like a decent excuse.

Lucien's russet eye was bright, though the smile he gave me didn't meet it. The face of Tamlin's emissary—more court-trained and calculating than I'd seen him yet. "I'm unavailable today," he said. He jerked his chin to Tamlin. "He'll go with you."

Tamlin shot his friend a look of disdain that he took few pains to hide. His usual baldric was armed with more knives than I'd seen before, and their ornate metal handles glinted as he turned to me, his shoulders tight. "Whenever you want to go, just say so." The claws of his free hand slipped back under his skin.

No. I almost said it aloud as I turned pleading eyes to Lucien. Lucien merely patted my shoulder as he passed by. "Perhaps tomorrow, human."

Alone with Tamlin, I swallowed hard.

He stood there, waiting.

"I don't want to go for a hunt," I finally said quietly. True. "I hate hunting."

He cocked his head. "Then what do you want to do?"

Tamlin led me down the halls. A soft breeze laced with the scent of roses slipped in through the open windows to caress my face.

"You've been going for hunts," Tamlin said at last, "but you really don't have any interest in hunting." He cast me a sidelong glance. "No wonder you two never catch anything."

No trace of the hollow, cold warrior of the night before, or of the angry Fae noble of minutes before. Just Tamlin right now, it seemed.

I said slightly softly, "How's your hand?"

He flexed his bandaged hand, studying the white bindings, stark and clean against his sun-kissed skin. "I didn't thank you."

"You don't need to."

But he shook his head, and his golden hair caught and held the morning light as if it were spun from the sun itself. "The Bogge's bite was crafted to slow the healing of High Fae long enough to kill us. You have my gratitude." When I shrugged it off, he added, "How did you learn to bind wounds like this? I can still use the hand, even with the wrappings."

"Trial and error. I had to be able to pull a bowstring the next day."

He was quiet as we turned down another sun-drenched marble hallway, and I dared to look at him. I found him carefully studying me, his lips in a thin line. "Has anyone ever taken care of you?" he asked quietly.

"No." I hated the sympathy.

"Did you learn to hunt in a similar manner—trial and error?"

"I spied on hunters when I could get away with it, and then practiced until I hit something. When I missed, we didn't eat. So learning how to aim was the first thing I figured out."

Tamlin strode ahead and opened a set of double doors at the end of the hall. The powerful muscles of his back shifted beneath his clothes.

"As requested," he said, "the study."

I saw what lay beyond him and felt endlessly happy.

Chapter 13

Tamlin waved his hand, and a hundred candles sprang to life.

I took in the enormous, opulent study. Tomes lined each wall like the soldiers of a silent army, and couches, desks, and rich rugs were scattered throughout the room. I had always loved libabrys, quiet, calm, full of lovely books... I loved librarys.

"Do you need anything else?" Tamlin asked, and I jerked. He still stood behind me.

"No,thank you." I said, striding into the study.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Tamlin said as our silence became too prolonged, too tense.

I didn't move until he'd closed the doors, shutting me inside. My heartbeat pulsed throughout my body as I approached a shelf.

(**A/N: I will skip some parts, namely the arggument about the letter and illiteracy)**

Twenty minutes later I had tracked down Lucien in his bedroom.I knocked on the white-painted double doors.

"Come in, human." He could probably detect me by my breathing patterns alone. Or maybe that eye of his could see through the door.

I eased open the door. The room was similar to mine in shape, but was bedecked in hues of orange and red and gold, with faint traces of green and brown. Like being in an autumn only tie to Autume he allowed. But while my room was all softness and grace, his was marked with ruggedness. In lieu of a pretty breakfast table by the window, a worn worktable dominated the space, covered in various weapons. It was there he sat, wearing only a white shirt and trousers, his red hair unbound and gleaming like liquid fire. Tamlin's court-trained emissary, but a warrior in his own right.

"I haven't seen you around," I said, shutting the door and leaning against it.

"I had to go sort out some hotheads on the northern border—official emissary business," he said, setting down the hunting knife he'd been cleaning, a long, vicious blade. "I got back in time to hear your little spat with Tam," (**A/N : Imangine it happened anyway okay?) **"and decided I was safer up here. I'm glad to hear your human heart has warmed to me, though. At least I'm not on the top of your killing list."

I gave him a long look.

"Well," he went on, shrugging, "it seems that you managed to get under Tam's fur enough that he sought me out and nearly bit my head off. So I suppose I can thank you for ruining what should have been a peaceful lunch. Thankfully for me, there's been a disturbance out in the western forest, and my poor friend had to go deal with it in that way only he can. I'm surprised you didn't run into him on the stairs."

Thank the caldron for some small mercies. "What sort of disturbance?"

Lucien shrugged, but the movement was too tense to be careless. "The usual sort: unwanted, nasty creatures raising hell."Amarantha sent them.

Good—good that Tamlin was away and wouldn't be here to catch me in what I planned to do. Another bit of luck. "I'm impressed you answered me that much," I said as casually as I could, thinking through my words. "But it's too bad you're not like the Suriel, spouting any information I want if I'm clever enough to snare you."

For a moment, he blinked at me. Then his mouth twisted to the side, and that metal eye whizzed and narrowed on me. "I suppose you won't tell me what you want to know."

"You have your secrets, and I have mine," I said carefully. I couldn't tell whether he would try to convince me otherwise if I told him the truth. "But if you were a Suriel," I added with deliberate slowness, in case he hadn't caught my meaning, "how, exactly, would I trap you?"

Lucien set down the knife and picked at his nails. For a moment, I wondered if he would tell me anything at all. Wondered if he would go right to Tamlin and tattle.

But then he said, "I'd probably have a weakness for groves of young birch trees in the western woods, and freshly slaughtered chickens," ( SERIOUSLY?!) and would probably be so greedy that I wouldn't notice the double-loop snare rigged around the grove to pin my legs in place."

"Hmm." There was still a good chance he wouldn't mind seeing me dead, but I would risk it. "I somehow prefer you as a High Fae."

He smirked, but the amusement was short-lived. "If I were insane and stupid enough to go after a Suriel, I'd also take a bow and quiver, and maybe a knife just like this one." He sheathed the knife he'd cleaned and set it down at the edge of the table—an offering. "And I'd be prepared to run like hell when I freed it—to the nearest running water, which they hate crossing."

"But you're not insane, so you'll be here, safe and sound?"

"I'll be conveniently hunting on the grounds, and with my superior hearing, I might be feeling generous enough to listen if someone screams from the western woods. But it's a good thing I had no role in telling you to go out today, since Tam would eviscerate anyone who told you how to trap a Suriel; and it's a good thing I had planned to hunt anyway, because if anyone caught me helping you, there would be trouble of a whole other hell awaiting us. I hope your secrets are worth it." He said it with his usual grin, but there was an edge to it—a warning I didn't miss.

Another riddle—and another bit of information. I said, "It's a good thing that while you have superior hearing, I possess superior abilities to keep my mouth shut."

He snorted as I took the knife from the table and turned to procure the bow from my room. "I think I'm starting to like you—for a murdering human." Lovely.

Chapter 14

Western woods. Grove of young birch trees. New robe. Double-loop snare. Close to running water.

I repeated Lucien's instructions as I walked out of the manor, through the cultivated gardens, across the wild, rolling grassy hills beyond them, over clear streams, and into the spring woods beyond. No one had stopped me—no one had even been around to see me leave, bow and quiver across my back, Lucien's knife at my side. I had a fresh new robe.

The lands were as empty as the manor itself, though I occasionally glimpsed something shining in the corner of my eye. Every time I turned to look, the shimmering transformed into the sunlight dancing on a nearby stream, or the wind fluttering the leaves of a lone sycamore atop a knoll. As I passed a large pond nestled at the foot of a towering hill, I could have sworn I saw four shining female heads poking up from the bright water, watching me. I hurried my steps.

Only birds and the chittering and rustling of small animals sounded as I entered the still green western forest. I'd never ridden through these woods on my hunts with Lucien. There was no path here, nothing tame about it. Oaks, elms, and beeches intertwined in a thick weave, almost strangling the trickle of sunlight that crept in through the dense canopy. The moss-covered earth swallowed any sound I made.

Old—this forest was ancient. And alive, in a way that I couldn't describe but could only feel, deep in the marrow of my bones. Perhaps I was the first human in five hundred years to walk beneath those heavy, dark branches, to inhale the freshness of spring leaves masking the damp, thick rot.

Birch trees—running water. I made my way through the woods, breath tight in my throat. Night was the dangerous time, I reminded myself. I had only a few hours until sunset.

—

**A/N : Thank you for reading, as always please review with story ideas and ways I could improve.**


	14. Fire night

Chapter 14: Fire night

I dismounted my mare but kept close to her as I made my way through the crowd, my telltale human features hidden in the shadows of my hood. I prayed that the smoke and countless scents of various High Fae and faeries were enough to cover my human smell, but I checked to ensure that my two knives were still at my sides anyway as I moved deeper into the celebration.

Though a cluster of drummers played on one side of the fire, the faeries flocked to a trench between two nearby hills. I left my horse tied to a solitary sycamore crowning a knoll and followed them, savoring the pulsing beat of the drums as it resonated through the earth and into the soles of my feet. No one looked twice in my direction.

I almost slid down the steep bank as I entered the hollow. At one end, a cave mouth opened into a soft hillside. Its exterior had been adorned with flowers and branches and leaves, and I could make out the beginnings of a pelt-covered floor just past the cave mouth. What lay inside was hidden from view as the chamber veered away from the entrance, but firelight danced upon the walls. Where the rite would be done probably.

Whatever was occurring inside the cave—or whatever was about to happen—was the focus of the shadowy faeries as they lined either side of a long path leading to it. The path wended between the trenches among the hills, and the High Fae swayed in place, moving to the rhythm of the drumming, whose beats sounded in my stomach.

I watched them sway, then shifted on my feet. I scanned the firelit area, trying to peer through the veil of night and smoke. I found nothing of interest, and none of the masked faeries paid me any heed. They remained along the path, more and more of them coming each minute.

I made my way back up the hillside and stood along the edge of a bonfire near the trees, watching the faeries. someone grasped my arm and whirled me .

I blinked at the three strangers, dumbfounded as I beheld their sharp-featured faces—free of masks. They looked like High Fae, but there was something slightly different about them, something taller and leaner than Tamlin or Lucien—something crueler in their pitch-black, depthless eyes. Faeries, then. I never found out what court they were from.

The one grasping my arm smiled down at me, revealing slightly pointed teeth. "Human woman," he murmured, running an eye over me. "We've not seen one of you for a while." And hopefully never will again.

I tried yanking my arm back, but he held my elbow firm. "What do you want?" I demanded, keeping my voice steady and cold.

The two faeries who flanked him smiled at me, and one grabbed my other arm—just as I went for my knife. "Just some Fire Night fun," one of them said, reaching out a pale, too-long hand to brush back a lock of my hair. I twisted my head away and tried to step out of his touch, but he held firm. None of the faeries near the bonfire reacted—no one bothered to look.

If I cried for help, would someone answer? Would Tamlin answer?" No probably not.

I yanked my arms in earnest. Their grip tightened until it hurt, and they kept my hands well away from my knives. The three of them stepped closer, sealing me off from the others. I glanced around, looking for any ally. There were more nonmasked faeries here now. The three faeries chuckled, a low hissing noise that ran along my body. I hadn't realized how far I stood from everyone else—how close I'd come to the forest's edge. "Leave me alone," I said, louder and angrier than I'd expected, given the shaking that was starting in my knees.

"Bold statement from a human on Calanmai," said the one holding my left arm. The fires didn't reflect in his eyes. It was as if they gobbled up the light. I thought of the naga, whose horrible exteriors matched their rotten hearts. Somehow, these beautiful, ethereal faeries were far worse. "Once the Rite's performed, we'll have some fun, won't we? A treat—such a treat—to find a human woman here."

I bared my teeth at him. "Get your hands off me," I said, loud enough for anyone to hear.

One of them ran a hand down my side, its bony fingers digging into my ribs, my hips. I jerked back, only to slam into the third one, who wove his long fingers through my hair and pressed close. No one looked; no one noticed.

"Stop it," I said, but the words came out in a strangled gasp as they began herding me toward the line of trees, toward the darkness. I pushed and thrashed against them; they only hissed. One of them shoved me and I staggered, falling out of their grasp. The ground welled up beneath me, and I reached for my knives, but sturdy hands grasped me under the shoulders before I could draw them or hit the grass.

They were strong hands—warm and broad. Not at all like the prodding, bony fingers of the three faeries who went utterly still as Rhysand gently set me upright.

"There you are. I've been looking for you," said a deep, sensual male voice I'd never heard. But I kept my eyes on the three faeries, bracing myself for flight as the male behind me stepped to my side and slipped a casual arm around my shoulders.

The three lesser faeries paled, their dark eyes of him I realised.

"Thank you for finding her for me,"Rhysand said, smooth and polished. "Enjoy the Rite." There was enough of a bite beneath his last words that the faeries stiffened. Without further comment, they scuttled back to the bonfires.

I stepped out of the shelter of my savior's arm and turned to thank him.

Standing before me was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

Chapter 21

Everything about the stranger radiated sensual grace and ease. High Fae, no doubt. His short black hair gleamed like a raven's feathers, offsetting his pale skin and blue eyes so deep they were violet, even in the firelight. They twinkled with amusement as he beheld me. And read my thoughts. But what he didn't know was that I could shield some things, like the future-travel-stuff.

He, too, wasn't wearing a mask.

A half smile played on his lips. "What's a mortal woman doing here on Fire Night?" His voice was a lover's purr that sent shivers through me, caressing every muscle and bone and nerve.

I stood my ground "I was bored."

It had been so long since I'd seen a bare face that looked even vaguely human. His clothes—all black, all finely made—were cut close enough to his body that I could see how magnificent he was. As if he'd been molded from the night court of course.

"And why did you come here?" He was still smiling at me—a predator sizing up prey.

"I was curious." I lied.

"A mortal woman Like you shouldn't be here on _calamai._ " He prowled closer, slipping his hands into his pockets.

he chuckled. "You're welcome," he said. "For saving you."

" he began circling me. I could have sworn tendrils of star-kissed night trailed in his wake. "Aren't humans usually terrified of us? And aren't you, for that matter, supposed to keep to your side of the wall?"

. "I am here under obscure circumstances ."

He paused his circling. He now stood between me and the bonfire. "And what may that be?."

"None of your concern." I said, and his smile grew.

He smiled for a heartbeat longer. I had never seen anyone so handsome—and never had so many warning bells pealed in my head because of it.

He camecloser now. " May I escort you somewhere in the meantime?" A fools demand. And one that I wanted to say yes to. But I couldn' removed a hand from his pocket to offer his arm.

"No," I said, my tongue thick and heavy.

He waved his hand toward the hollow—toward the drums. "Enjoy the Rite, then. Try to stay out of trouble." His eyes gleamed in a way that suggested staying out of trouble meant staying far, far away from the spring court. And probably right too.

I blurted, "So you're not a part of the Spring Court?"

He returned to me, every movement exquisite and laced with lethal power, but I held my ground as he gave me a lazy smile. "Do I look like I'm part of the Spring Court?" The words were tinged with an arrogance that only an immortal could achieve. He laughed under his breath. "No, I'm not a part of the noble Spring Court. And glad of it." He gestured to his face, where a mask might go.

I should have walked away, should have shut my mouth. "Why are you here, then?"

The man's remarkable eyes seemed to glow. "Because all the monsters have been let out of their cages tonight, no matter what court they belong to. So I may roam wherever I wish until the dawn."

More riddles and questions to be answered. But I'd had enough—especially as his smile turned cold and cruel. "Enjoy the Rite," I repeated as blandly as I could.

I hurried back to the hollow, too aware of the fact that I was putting my back to him. I was grateful to lose myself in the crowd milling along the path to the cave, still waiting for some moment to occur.

When I stopped shaking, I looked around at the gathered faeries. Most of them still wore masks, but there were some, like that lethal stranger and those three horrible faeries, who wore no masks at all—either faeries with no allegiance or members of other courts. I couldn't tell them apart. As I scanned the crowd, my eyes met with those of a masked faerie across the path. One was russet and shone as brightly as his red hair. The other was—metal. I blinked at the same moment he did, and then his eyes went wide. He vanished into nothing, and a second later, he grabbed my elbow and yanked me out of the crowd.

—

**A/N: Updating once a week now. Hope you enjoyed!**


	15. The bite

Chapter 15 : fire night part 2

"Have you lost your senses?" Lucien shouted above the drums. His face was ghostly pale. "What are you doing here?"

None of the faeries noticed us—they were all staring intensely down the path, away from the cave. "I wanted to—" I started, but Lucien cursed violently.

"Idiot!" he yelled at me, then glanced behind him toward where the other faeries stared. "Useless human fool." Without further word, he slung me over his shoulder as if I were a sack of potatoes. Charming.

Lucien dropped me on the floor of the manor hallway, and when I steadied myself, I found his face just as pale as before. "You stupid mortal," he snapped. "Didn't he tell you to stay in your room?" Lucien looked over his shoulder, toward the hills, where the drumming became so loud and fast that it was like a rainstorm.

"That wasn't even the ceremony!" It was only then that I saw the sweat on his face and the panicked gleam in his eyes. "By the Cauldron, if Tam found you there …" Then I would get of.

"So what?" I said, shouting as well. I hated feeling like a disobedient child. He would get it later, when I was fae I'd kick his ass alright.

"It's the Great Rite, Cauldron boil me! Didn't anyone tell you what it is?" My silence was answer enough. I could almost see the drumbeats pulsing against his skin, beckoning him to rejoin the crowd. "Fire Night signals the official start of spring—in Prythian, as well as in the mortal world," Lucien said. While his words were calm, they trembled slightly. I leaned against the wall of the hallway, forcing myself into a casualness I didn't feel. "Here, our crops depend upon the magic we regenerate on Calanmai—tonight."Nice way to put it.

I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my pants. Tamlin had said something similar two days ago. Lucien shuddered, as if shaking off an invisible touch. "We do this by conducting the Great Rite. Each of the seven High Lords of Prythian performs this every year, since their magic comes from the earth and returns to it at the end—it's a give-and-take." Each high lord of Pyritian? I didn't remember Rhysand doing it...

"But what is it?" I asked, and he clicked his tongue.

"Tonight, Tam will allow … great and terrible magic to enter his body," Lucien said, staring at the distant fires. "The magic will seize control of his mind, his body, his soul, and turn him into the Hunter. It will fill him with his sole purpose: to find the Maiden. From their coupling, magic will be released and spread to the earth, where it will regenerate life for the year to come."

"Tonight, Tam won't be the faerie you know," Lucien said. "He won't even know his name. The magic will consume everything in him but that one basic command—and need." To Fuck yeah.

"Who … who's the Maiden?" I got out.

Lucien snorted. "No one knows until it's time. After Tam hunts down the white stag and kills it for the sacrificial offering, he'll make his way to that sacred cave, where he'll find the path lined with faerie females waiting to be chosen as his mate for tonight."

"What?"

Lucien laughed. "Yes—all those female faeries around you were females for Tamlin to pick. It's an honor to be chosen, but it's his instincts that select her."

"But you were there—and other male faeries." My face burned so hot that I began sweating. That was why those three horrible faeries had been there—and they'd thought that just by my presence, I was happy to comply with their plans. Lovely.

Ah." Lucien chuckled. "Well, Tam's not the only one who gets to perform the rite tonight. Once he makes his choice, we're free to mingle. Though it's not the Great Rite, our own dalliances tonight will help the land, too." He shrugged off that invisible hand a second time, and his eyes fell upon the hills. "You're lucky I found you when I did, though," he said. "Because he would have smelled you, and claimed you, but it wouldn't have been Tamlin who brought you into that cave." His eyes met mine, and a chill went over me. "And I don't think you would have liked it. Tonight is not for lovemaking." Gross.

I swallowed my nausea.

"I should go," Lucien said, gazing at the hills. "I need to return before he arrives at the cave—at least to try to control him when he smells you and can't find you in the crowd."

It made me sick—the thought of Tamlin forcing me, that magic could strip away any sense of self, of right or wrong.

"Stay in your room tonight, Feyre," Lucien said, walking to the garden doors. "No matter who comes knocking, keep the door locked. Don't come out until morning."

At some point, I dozed off while sitting at my vanity. I awoke the moment the drums stopped. A shuddering silence went through the house, and the hair on my arms arose as magic swept past me, rippling outward.

Though I tried not to, I thought about the probable source and blushed. I glanced at the clock. It was past two in the morning.

Well, he'd certainly taken his time with the ritual, which meant the girl was probably beautiful and charming, and appealed to his instincts.

I wondered whether she was glad to be chosen. Probably. She'd come to the hill of her own free will. And after all, Tamlin was a High Lord, and it was a great _honor._

I unlocked the door and strode into the hallway. What a ridiculous holiday. Absurd. It was good that humans had cast them aside.

I made it to the empty kitchen, gobbled down half a loaf of bread, an apple, and a lemon tart. I nibbled on a chocolate cookie as I walked to my little painting room. I was waiting for tamlin to show.

I was about to turn down the hallway when a tall male figure appeared before me. The moonlight from the open window turned his mask silver, and his golden hair—unbound and crowned with laurel leaves—gleamed.

"Going somewhere?" Tamlin asked. His voice was not entirely of this world.

"Midnight snack," I said, and I was aware of his teeth... which would be soon at my neck. And I tried not to cringe.

His bare chest was painted with whorls of dark blue woad, and from the smudges in the paint, I knew exactly where he'd been touched. I tried not to notice that they descended past his muscled midriff.

I was about to pass him when he grabbed me, so fast that I didn't see anything until he had me pinned against the wall. The cookie dropped from my hand as he grasped my wrists. "I smelled you," he breathed, his painted chest rising and falling so close to mine. "I searched for you, and you weren't there."

He reeked of magic. When I looked into his eyes, remnants of power flickered there. No kindness, none of the wry humor and gentle reprimands. The Tamlin I knew was gone.

"Let go," I said coldly, but his claws punched out, imbedding in the wood above my hands. Still riding the magic, he was half-wild.

"You drove me mad," he growled, and the sound trembled down my neck, along my breasts until they ached. "I searched for you, and you weren't there. When I didn't find you," he said, bringing his face closer to mine, until we shared breath, "it made me pick another."

I couldn't escape.

"She asked me not to be gentle with her, either," he snarled, his teeth bright in the moonlight. He brought his lips to my ear. "I would have been gentle with you, though." I shuddered as I closed my eyes. Every inch of my body went taut as his words echoed through me. "I would have had you moaning my name throughout it all. And I would have taken a very, very long time, Feyre." He said my name like a caress, and his hot breath tickled my ear. My back arched slightly.

He ripped his claws free from the wall, and my knees buckled as he let go. I grasped the wall to keep from sinking to the floor, to keep from grabbing him—to strike or caress, I didn't know. I opened my eyes. He still smiled—smiled like an animal.

"Why should I want someone's leftovers?" I said, making to push him away. He grabbed my hands again and bit my neck.

I cried out as his teeth clamped onto the tender spot where my neck met my shoulder. I couldn't move—couldn't think, and my world narrowed to the feeling of his lips and teeth against my skin. He didn't pierce my flesh, but rather bit to keep me pinned. The push of his body against mine, the hard and the soft, made me see red—see lightning, want to strangle him.

His bite lightened, and his tongue caressed the places his teeth had been. He didn't move—he just remained in that spot, kissing my neck. Intently, territorially, lazily.

He jerked away. The air was bitingly cold against my freed skin, and I panted as he stared at me. "Don't ever disobey me again," he said, his voice a deep purr. Like the animal he was.

Then I reconsidered his words and straightened. He grinned at me in that wild way, and my hand connected with his face.

"Don't tell me what to do," I breathed, my palm stinging. "And don't bite me like some enraged beast."

He chuckled bitterly. The moonlight turned his eyes to the color of leaves in shadow.

Chapter 22

I awoke when the sun was high, after tossing and turning all night, empty and aching.

The servants were sleeping in after their night of celebrating, so I made myself a bath and took a good, long soak. Try as I might to forget the feel of Tamlin's lips on my neck, I had an enormous bruise where he'd bitten me. After bathing, I dressed and sat at the vanity to braid my hair.


	16. Rhys first meeting

Chapter :

Help me, help me, help me, I begged someone, anyone. Begged Lucien, standing in the front row, his metal eye fixed on me. Begged Ianthe, face serene and patient and lovely within that hood. Save me—please, save me. Get me out. End this.

Tamlin took a step toward me—concern shading those eyes.

I retreated a step. No.

Tamlin's mouth tightened. Good. The crowd murmured. Silk streamers laden with globes of gold faelight twinkled into life above and around us.

Ianthe said smoothly, "Come, Bride, and be joined with your true love. Come, Bride, and let good triumph at last."True lovne my ass I thought. And.. Bride?! _That _was all I was?! I have a _name _I thought.

I faked trying to get my traitorous lungs to draw air so I could voice the word. No—no.

But I didn't have to say it.

Thunder cracked behind me, as if two boulders had been hurled against each other. And... in comes Rhys.

People screamed, falling back, a few vanishing outright as darkness erupted.

I whirled, and through the night drifting away like smoke on a wind, I found Rhysand straightening the lapels of his black .

"Hello, Feyre darling," he purred.

CHAPTER

5

Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, now stood beside me, darkness leaking from him like ink in water.

He angled his head, his blue-black hair shifting with the movement. Those violet eyes sparkled in the golden faelight as they fixed on Tamlin, as he held up a hand to where Tamlin and Lucien and their sentries had their swords half-drawn, sizing up how to get me out of the way, how to bring him down—

But at the lift of that hand, they froze.

Ianthe, however, was backing away slowly, face drained of color. Ohhhh that memory...

"What a pretty little wedding," Rhysand said, stuffing his hands into his pockets as those many swords remained in their sheaths. The remaining crowd was pressing back, some climbing over seats to get away.

Rhys looked me over slowly, and clicked his tongue at my silk gloves. Whatever had been building beneath my skin went still and cold.

"Get the hell out," growled Tamlin, stalking toward us. Claws ripped from his knuckles.

Rhys clicked his tongue again. "Oh, I don't think so. Not when I need to call in my bargain with Feyre darling.".

"You try to break the bargain, and you know what will happen," Rhys went on, chuckling a bit at the crowd still falling over themselves to get away from him. He jerked his chin toward me. "I gave you three months of freedom. You could at least look happy to see me."

The expression was gone when he faced Tamlin again. "I'll be taking her now."

"Don't you dare," Tamlin snarled. Behind him, the dais was empty; Ianthe had vanished entirely. Along with most of those in attendance.

I schooled my face into desperation, fear when my insides were doubling over in laughter and amusement.

"Was I interrupting? I thought it was over." Rhys gave me a smile dripping with venom. He knew—through that bond, through whatever magic was between us, he'd known I was about to say no. "At least, Feyre seemed to think so."

Tamlin snarled, "Let us finish the ceremony—"

"Your High Priestess," Rhys said, "seems to think it's over, too."

Tamlin stiffened as he looked over a shoulder to find the altar empty. When he faced us again, the claws had eased halfway back into his hands. "Rhysand—"

"I'm in no mood to bargain," Rhys said, "even though I could work it to my advantage, I'm sure." I jolted at the caress of his hand on my elbow. "Let's go."

I moved a step before Tamlin had spoken.

Tamlin took a single step toward me, his golden face turning sallow, but remained focused on Rhys. "Name your price."

"Don't bother," Rhys crooned, linking elbows with me."

But Tamlin didn't move—and those claws were wholly replaced by smooth skin. He fixed his gaze on Rhys, his lips pulling back in a snarl. "If you hurt her—"

"I know, I know," Rhysand drawled. "I'll return her in a week."

Rhys released my elbow only to slip a hand around my waist, pressing me into his side as he whispered in my ear, "Hold on."

Then darkness roared, a wind tearing me this way and that, the ground falling away beneath me, the world gone around me. Only Rhys remained, and I clung to him, reining my laugh in allowing only a smile and sight sparkle in my eyes.

Then the darkness vanished.

I smelled jasmine first—then saw stars. A sea of stars flickering beyond glowing pillars of moonstone that framed the sweeping view of endless snowcapped mountains.

"Welcome to the Night Court," was all Rhys said.

It was the most beautiful place I'd ever seen.

Whatever building we were in had been perched atop one of the gray-stoned mountains. The hall around us was open to the elements, no windows to be found, just towering pillars and gossamer curtains, swaying in that jasmine-scented breeze.

It must be some magic, to keep the air warm in the dead of winter. Not to mention the altitude, or the snow coating the mountains, mighty winds sending veils of it drifting off the peaks like wandering mist.

Little seating, dining, and work areas dotted the hall, sectioned off with those curtains or lush plants or thick rugs scattered over the moonstone floor. A few balls of light bobbed on the breeze, along with colored-glass lanterns dangling from the arches of the ceiling.

Behind me, a wall of white marble arose, broken occasionally by open doorways leading into dim stairwells. The rest of the Night Court had to be through there.

"This is my private residence," Rhys said casually. His skin was darker than I'd remembered—golden now, rather than pale.

Pale, from being locked Under the Mountain for fifty years. I scanned him, searching for any sign of the massive, membranous wings—the ones he'd admitted he loved flying with. But there was none. Just the male, smirking at me.

And that too-familiar expression— "How dare you—"I said with a amused—angry expression on my face.

Rhys snorted. "I certainly missed that look on your face." He stalked closer, his movements feline, those violet eyes turning subdued—lethal. "You're welcome, you know."

"For what?"I asked cheekily, smiling slightly.

Rhys paused less than a foot away, sliding his hands into his pockets. The night didn't seem to ripple from him here—and he appeared, despite his perfection, almost normal. "For saving you when asked."

I rolled my eyes and said, slowly , deliberately" I formally give you my gratitude for your spectacle tonight."

Rhys gave a faint smile even as he gripped my arm, snarling softly, and tore off the glove. "I heard you begging someone, anyone, to rescue you, to get you out. I heard you say no."

"I didn't _say _no I'm fairly certain I thought it."

"Well than, you _thought _no. same difference."

"What do you want?" I asked a little bored-ly

"Want? I want you to take off that hideous dress. You look … " His mouth cut a cruel line. "You look exactly like the doe-eyed damsel he and that simpering priestess want you to be."

"_I know._" I drawled " I. Hate. This. Utterly. Stupid. Dress " I said with some irritation

"well than, why did you let them put it on you? " he asked

"I... " I couldn't tell him the truth yet... not yet. " I have my reasons."

"As for what else I want from you … " He gestured to the house behind us. "I'll tell you tomorrow at breakfast. For now, clean yourself up. Rest." That rage flickered in his eyes again at the dress, the hair. "Take the stairs on the right, one level down. Your room is the first door."

I turned towards it and went in to my room. As soon as I was in, I took—no more like yanked—all the pins from my hair and shoved them in the dressor draw. I took off the dress turned filled the bath tub and got in. I was in for about 30 min when I got out, when to the wardrobe and put on the night court attiare gladly. So comfy, much better than those atrocious _dresses. _I then turned on the weddion gown and stuffed it into the same draw not caring if it ripped or tore.


	17. Wedding part 2

Wedding 2:

At the very end of the upper level, a small glass table gleamed like quicksilver in the heart of a stone veranda, set with three chairs and laden with fruits, juices, pastries, and breakfast meats. And in one of those chairs … Though Rhys stared out at the sweeping view, the snowy mountains near-blinding in the sunlight, I knew he'd sensed my arrival from the moment I cleared the stairwell at the other side of the hall. Maybe since I'd awoken, if that tug was any indication.

I paused between the last two pillars, studying the High Lord lounging at the breakfast table and the view he surveyed.

"I'm not a dog you know " I drawled with humor lacing every word.

Slowly, Rhys looked over his shoulder. Those violet eyes were vibrant in the light. He scanned me and frowned at whatever he found lacking, probably _life ? color? A will to survive? _Just mabe?"I didn't want you to get lost," he said blandly.

I eyed the silver teapot steaming in the center of the table. A cup of tea … "I thought it'd always be dark here," I said, if only to not look quite as desperate for that life-giving tea so early in the morning.

"We're one of the three Solar Courts," he said, motioning for me to sit with a graceful twist of his wrist. "Our nights are far more beautiful, and our sunsets and dawns are exquisite, but we do adhere to the laws of nature."

I slid into the upholstered chair across from him. His tunic was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a hint of the tanned chest beneath. "And do the other courts choose not to?"

"The nature of the Seasonal Courts," he said, "is linked to their High Lords, whose magic and will keeps them in eternal spring, or winter, or fall, or summer. It has always been like that—some sort of strange stagnation. But the Solar Courts—Day, Dawn, and Night—are of a more … symbolic nature. We might be powerful, but even we cannot alter the sun's path or strength. Tea?"

The sunlight danced along the curve of the silver teapot. I kept my eager nod to a restrained dip of my chin. "But you will find," Rhysand went on, pouring a cup for me, "that our nights are more spectacular—so spectacular that some in my territory even awaken at sunset and go to bed at dawn, just to live under the starlight."

I splashed some milk in the tea, watching the light and dark eddy together. "Why is it so warm in here, when winter is in full blast out there?"

"Magic."

"Obviously." I said with a roll of the eyes, and set down my teaspoon and sipped, nearly sighing at the rush of heat and smoky, rich flavor. "But why?"

Rhys scanned the wind tearing through the peaks. "You heat a house in the winter—why shouldn't I heat this place as well? I'll admit I don't know why my predecessors built a palace fit for the Summer Court in the middle of a mountain range that's mildly warm at best, but who am I to question?"

I took a few more sips, and scooped some fruit onto my plate from a glass bowl nearby.

He watched every movement. Then he said quietly, "You've lost weight."

"That obvious hun?," I said, stabbing a piece of melon with my fork.

His gaze didn't lighten, though that smile again played about his sensuous mouth, no doubt his favorite mask."Yes, very obvious."

"What do you want me to do? You said you'd tell me here. So tell me."

Rhys leaned back in his chair, folding powerful arms that even the fine clothes couldn't hide. "For this week? I want you to learn how to read." That should be easy, seeing as I am educated and know how to read.

CHAPTER

6

Rhysand had mocked me about it once—had asked me while we were Under the Mountain if forcing me to learn how to read would be my personal idea of it would not.

"Welllllll..." I was seriously debating weather or not to tell him that I _could _ write for that matter.

"You're going to be a High Lord's wife," Rhys said. "You'll be expected to maintain your own correspondences, perhaps even give a speech or two. And the Cauldron knows what else he and Ianthe will deem appropriate for you. Make menus for dinner parties, write thank-you letters for all those wedding gifts, embroider sweet phrases on pillows … It's a necessary skill. And, you know what? Why don't we throw in shielding while we're at it. Reading and shielding—fortunately, you can practice them together."

"They are both necessary skills," I said thoughtfully.

"What else are you going to do with yourself? Paint? How's that going these days, Feyre?"

"What does it even matter to you?"A quiet curious question, so I didn't appear to know too much.

"It serves various purposes of mine, of course."

"What. Purposes."

"You'll have to agree to work with me to find out, I'm afraid." Ahhhh the book, the caldron, Hybern...

Something sharp poked into my hand.

I'd folded the fork into a tangle of metal.

When I set it down on the table, Rhys chuckled. "Interesting.

"What?" I said with a hint of irritation.

His gaze raked over me again, as if he could see beneath the peach fabric, through the skin, to the shredded soul beneath. Then it drifted to the mangled fork. "Has anyone ever told you that you're rather strong for a High Fae?"

"Am I?"

"I'll take that as a no." He popped a piece of melon into his mouth. "Have you tested yourself against anyone?"

"Why would I?" I wasn't dumb enough to fight Ianthe or Tamlin.

"Because you were resurrected and reborn by the combined powers of the seven High Lords. If I were you, I'd be curious to see if anything else transferred to me during that process."

My blood chilled. "Unlikely... But perhaps." A blatant lie.

"It'd just be rather … interesting," he smirked at the word, "if it did."

"Yes, very."

quick, light footsteps sounded down the hall, and then she appeared. Mor.

If Rhysand was the most beautiful male I'd ever seen, she was his female equivalent.

Her bright, golden hair was tied back in a casual braid, and the turquoise of her clothes—fashioned like my own—offset her sun-kissed skin, making her practically glow in the morning light.

"Hello, hello," she chirped, her full lips parting in a dazzling smile as her rich brown eyes fixed on me.

"Feyre," Rhys said smoothly, "meet my cousin, Morrigan. Mor, meet the lovely, charming, and open-minded Feyre."Nice move.

Mor strode toward me. Each step was assured and steady, graceful, and … grounded. Merry but alert. Someone who didn't need weapons—or at least bother to sheath them at her side. "I've heard so much about you," she said, and I got to my feet, awkwardly jutting out my hand.

She ignored it and grabbed me into a bone-crushing hug. "You look like you were getting under Rhys's skin," she said, strutting to her seat between us. "Good thing I came along. Though I'd enjoy seeing Rhys's balls nailed to the wall."

Rhys slid incredulous eyes at her, his brows lifting.

I hid the smile that tugged on my lips. "It's nice to meet you." And I meant it.

" Mor poured herself some tea and loading her plate.

"You're … perky today, Mor," Rhys said.

Mor's stunning eyes lifted to her cousin's face. "Forgive me for being excited about having company for once."

"You could be attending your own duties," he said testily. I clamped my lips tighter together. I'd never seen Rhys … irked.

"I needed a break, and you told me to come here whenever I liked, so what better time than now, when you brought my new friend to finally meet me?" You mean _mate. _

I blinked, realizing two things at once: one, she actually meant what she said; two, hers was the female voice I'd heard speak last night, mocking Rhys for our squabble. So, that went well, she'd teased. Yeas the first time talking civilized to his mate.

A new fork had appeared beside my plate, and I picked it up, only to spear a piece of melon. "You two look nothing alike," I said at last.

"Mor is my cousin in the loosest definition," he said. She grinned at him, devouring slices of tomato and pale cheese. "But we were raised together. She's my only surviving family."

I didn't have the nerve to ask what happened to everyone else. To upset/sadden him or anger him further.

"And as my only remaining relative," Rhys went on, "Mor believes she is entitled to breeze in and out of my life as she sees fit."

"So grumpy this morning," Mor said, plopping two muffins onto her plate.

"I didn't see you Under the Mountain," I found myself saying, hating those last three words more than anything.

"Oh, I wasn't there," she said. "I was in—"Ready to spill the secrets... Just because I was Rhys's Mate.

"Enough, Mor," he said, his voice laced with quiet thunder.

Rhysand set his napkin on the table and rose. "Mor will be here for the rest of the week, but by all means, do not feel that you have to oblige her with your presence." Mor stuck out her tongue at him. He rolled his eyes and examined my plate. "Did you eat enough?" I fussy! "Good. Then let's go." He inclined his head toward the pillars and swaying curtains behind him. "Your first lesson awaits."

Mor sliced one of the muffins in two in a steady sweep of her knife. The angle of her fingers, her wrist, indeed confirmed my suspicions that weapons weren't at all foreign to her. "If he pisses you off, Feyre, feel free to shove him over the rail of the nearest balcony."

Rhys gave her a smooth, filthy gesture as he strode down the hall.

I eased to my feet when he was a good distance ahead. "Enjoy your breakfast."

"Whenever you want company," she said as I edged around the table, "give a shout." She probably meant that literally.

I merely nodded and trailed after the High Lord..

"I know my alphabet," I said sharply as he laid a piece of paper in front of me. "I'm not that stupid."

"I didn't say you were stupid," he said. "I'm just trying to determine where we should begin." I leaned back in the cushioned seat. "Since you've refused to tell me a thing about how much you know."

He tapped the paper in front of him. "Read that."

I glanced at the sentence, then fixed Rhys with a look of incredulity and disgust. " You are _disgusting! _I am _not _your _breakfast _!"

A blink of surprise, " So... you can read now, who taught you?"

"No—one, I taught myself. " A lie, but a cleverly spun one. I'd tell him the truth one day... Later.

He leaned back in his seat. As our eyes met, sharp claws caressed my mind and his voice whispered inside my head:When?

I jolted back, my chair groaning. "Stop that!"

But those claws now dug in—and my entire body, my heart, my lungs, my blood yielded to his grip, utterly at his command as he said, The fashion of the Night Court suits you.

I couldn't move in my seat, couldn't even blink.

This is what happens when you leave your mental shields down. Someone with my sort of powers could slip inside, see what they want, and take your mind for themselves. Or they could shatter it. I'm currently standing on the threshold of your mind … but if I were to go deeper, all it would take would be half a thought from me and who you are, your very self, would be wiped away.

Distantly, sweat slid down my temple.

You should be afraid. You should be afraid of this, and you should be thanking the gods-damned Cauldron that in the past three months, no one with my sorts of gifts has run into you. Now shove me out.

I tried, cleared a path in my mind then pushed but pushed a little harder.

Shove. Me. Out.

I tried to send daggers, but only some connected.

His laughter, low and soft, filled my mind, my ears. That way, Feyre.

It'd take me forever to unhook each claw and shove the mass of his presence out that narrow opening. If I could wash it away—

A wave. A wave of self, of me, to sweep all of him out—

I didn't let him see the plan take form as I rallied myself into a cresting wave and struck.

The claws loosened—reluctantly. As if letting me win this round. He merely said, "Good."

My bones, my breath and blood, they were mine again. I slumped in my seat.

"Not yet," he said. "Shield. Block me out so I can't get back in."

Claws at that outer layer of my mind, stroking—

I imagined a wall of adamant snapping down, black as night and a foot thick. The claws retracted a breath before the wall sliced them in two.

Rhys was grinning. "Very nice. Blunt, but nice."

—


	18. Chapter 18

Wedding 3:

"Is it even possible—to truly keep you out?"

"Not likely, but who knows how deep that power goes? Keep practicing and we'll see what happens."

"And will I still be bound by this bargain at Nynsar, too?"

Silence.

I pushed, "After—after what happened—" I couldn't mention specifics on what had occurred Under the Mountain, what he'd done for me during that fight with Amarantha, what he'd done after— "I think we can agree that I owe you nothing, and you owe me nothing."

His gaze was unflinching.I hated myself for doing this—for hurting him like this but— I had to keep up a little charade.

I blazed on, "Isn't it enough that we're all free?" I splayed my tattooed hand on the table. "By the end, I thought you were different, thought that it was all a mask, but taking me away, keeping me here … " I shook my head horrified at what I said.

His eyes darkened. "I'm not your enemy, Feyre."

"Tamlin says you are." I curled the fingers of my tattooed hand into a fist. "Everyone else says you are."

"And what do you think?" He leaned back in his chair again, but his face was grave.

" I think that you have good intentions... But that you use way too many masks to the world." I said slowly and deliberately

A flicker of shock and delight, then it was gone behind a mask of stone.

He only pointed to a blank piece of paper. "Start copying the alphabet. Until your letters are perfect. And every time you get through a round, lower and raise your shield. Until that is second nature. I'll be back in an hour."

"What?"

"Copy. The. Alphabet. Until—"

"I heard what you said." Prick. Prick, prick, prick.

"Then get to work." Rhys uncoiled to his feet. "And at least have the decency to only call me a prick when your shields are back up."

He vanished into a ripple of darkness before I realized that I'd let the wall of adamant fade again.

By the time Rhys returned, my mind felt like a mud puddle.

Which was good, as my attempts to lower and raise that mental shield often resulted in my face being twisted or strained or pinched.

"Not bad," Rhys said, peering over my shoulder.

He'd appeared moments before, a healthy distance away, and I thought it was because he didn't want to startle me. As if he'd known about the time Tamlin had crept up behind me, and panic had hit me so hard I'd knocked him on his ass with a punch to his stomach. I'd blocked it out—the shock on Tam's face, how easy it had been to take him off his feet, the humiliation of having my stupid terror so out in the open …

Rhys scanned the pages I'd scribbled on, sorting through them, tracking my progress.

Then, a scrape of claws inside my mind—that only sliced against black, glittering adamant.

I threw my lingering will into that wall as the claws pushed, testing for weak spots …

"Well, well," Rhysand purred, those mental claws withdrawing. "Hopefully I'll be getting a good night's rest at last, if you can manage to keep the wall up while you sleep."

I dropped the shield, sent a word blasting down that mental bridge between us, and hauled the walls back up. Behind it, my mind wobbled like jelly. I needed a nap. Desperately.

"Prick I might be, but look at you. Maybe we'll get to have some fun with our lessons after all."

I was still scowling at Rhys's muscled back as I kept a healthy ten steps behind him while he led me through the halls of the main building, the sweeping mountains and blisteringly blue sky the only witnesses to our silent trek.

I was too drained to demand where we were now going, and he didn't bother explaining as he led me up, up—until we entered a round chamber at the top of a tower.

A circular table of black stone occupied the center, while the largest stretch of uninterrupted gray stone wall was covered in a massive map of our world. It had been marked and flagged and pinned, for whatever reasons I couldn't tell, but my gaze drifted to the windows throughout the room—so many that it felt utterly exposed, breathable. The perfect home, I supposed, for a High Lord blessed with wings.

Rhys stalked to the table, where there was another map spread, figurines dotting its surface. A map of Prythian—and Hybern.

Every court in our land had been marked, along with villages and cities and rivers and mountain passes. Every court … but the Night Court.

I found Rhysand watching me—his raised brows enough to make me shut my mouth against the forming question.

"Nothing to ask?"

"No."

Rhys jerked his chin toward the map on the wall. "What do you see?"

"Is this some sort of way of convincing me to embrace my reading lessons?"

"Tell me what you see."

"A world divided in two."

"And do you think it should remain that way?"

I whipped my head toward him. "My family—" I halted on the word.

"Your human family," Rhys finished, "would be deeply impacted if the wall came down, wouldn't they? So close to its border … If they're lucky, they'll flee across the ocean before it happens."

"Will it happen?"

Rhysand didn't break my stare. "Maybe."

"Why?"

"Because war is coming, Feyre."

CHAPTER

7

his eyes softening almost imperceptibly. "Did you think it would end with Amarantha?"

"Tamlin hasn't said … " And why would he tell me? But there were so many patrols, so many meetings I wasn't allowed to attend, such … tension. He had to know. I needed to ask him—demand why he hadn't told me—kill him.. Okay maybe not that last thought.

"The King of Hybern has been planning his campaign to reclaim the world south of the wall for over a hundred years," Rhys said. "Amarantha was an experiment—a forty-nine-year test, to see how easily and how long a territory might fall and be controlled by one of his commanders."

For an immortal, forty-nine years was nothing. I wouldn't have been surprised to hear he'd been planning this for far longer than a century. "Will he attack Prythian first?"

"Prythian," Rhys said, pointing to the map of our massive island on the table, "is all that stands between the King of Hybern and the continent. He wants to reclaim the human lands there—perhaps seize the faerie lands, too. If anyone is to intercept his conquering fleet before it reaches the continent, it would be us."

I slid into one of the chairs, my knees wobbling so badly I could hardly keep upright.

"He will seek to remove Prythian from his way swiftly and thoroughly," Rhys continued. "And shatter the wall at some point in the process. There are already holes in it, though mercifully small enough to make it difficult to swiftly pass his armies through. He'll want to bring the whole thing down—and likely use the ensuing panic to his advantage."

Each breath was like swallowing glass. "When—when is he going to attack?" The wall had held steady for five centuries, and even then, those damned holes had allowed the foulest, hungriest Fae beasts to sneak through and prey on humans. Without that wall, if Hybern was indeed to launch an assult on the human world … I wished I hadn't eaten such a large breakfast.

"That is the question," he said. "And why I brought you here."

I lifted my head to meet his stare. His face was drawn, but calm.

"I don't know when or where he plans to attack Prythian," Rhys went on. "I don't know who his allies here might be."

"He'd have allies here?"

A slow nod. "Cowards who would bow and join him, rather than fight his armies again."

I could have sworn a whisper of darkness spread along the floor behind him. "Did … did you fight in the War?"

For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. But then Rhys nodded. "I was young—by our standards, at least. But my father had sent aid to the mortal-faerie alliance on the continent, and I convinced him to let me take a legion of our soldiers." He sat in the chair beside mine, gazing vacantly at the map. "I was stationed in the south, right where the fighting was thickest. The slaughter was … " He chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I have no interest in ever seeing full-scale slaughter like that again."

He blinked, as if clearing the horrors from his mind. "But I don't think the King of Hybern will strike that way—not at first. He's too smart to waste his forces here, to give the continent time to rally while we fight him. If he makes his move to destroy Prythian and the wall, it'll be through stealth and trickery. To weaken us. Amarantha was the first part of that plan. We now have several untested High Lords, broken courts with High Priestesses angling for control like wolves around a carcass, and a people who have realized how powerless they might truly be."

"Why are you telling me this?" I said, my voice thin, scratchy. It made no sense—none—that he would reveal his suspicions, his fears.

"I am telling you for two reasons," he said, his face so cold, so calm, that it unnerved me as much as the news he was delivering. "One, you're … close to Tamlin. He has men—but he also has long-existing ties to Hybern—"

Yes,and allied with them.

"I want to know if Tamlin is willing to fight with us. If he can use those connections to our advantage. As he and I have strained relations, you have the pleasure of being the go-between."

"He doesn't inform me of those things."

"Perhaps it's time he did. Perhaps it's time you insisted." He examined the map, and I followed where his gaze landed. On the wall within Prythian—on the small, vulnerable mortal territory. My mouth went dry.

"What is your other reason?"

Rhys looked me up and down, assessing, weighing. "You have a skill set that I need. Rumor has it you caught a Suriel."

"It wasn't that hard."

"I've tried and failed. Twice. But that's a discussion for another day. I saw you trap the Middengard Wyrm like a rabbit." His eyes twinkled. "I need you to help me. To use those skills of yours to track down what I need."

"What do you need? Whatever was tied to my reading and shielding, I'm guessing?"

"You'll learn of that later."

I didn't know why I'd even bothered to ask. "There have to be at least a dozen other hunters more experienced and skilled—"

"Maybe there are. But you're the only one I trust." Mate. "And then there's the matter of your powers."

"I don't have any powers." It came out so fast that there was no chance of it sounding like anything but denial.

Rhys crossed his legs. "Don't you? The strength, the speed … If I didn't know better, I'd say you and Tamlin were doing a very good job of pretending you're normal. That the powers you're displaying aren't usually the first indications among our kind that a High Lord's son might become his Heir."

"I'm not a High Lord."

"No, but you were given life by all seven of us. Your very essence is tied to us, born of us. What if we gave you more than we expected?" Again, that gaze raked over me. "What if you could stand against us—hold your own, a High Lady?"

"There are no High Ladies."

His brows furrowed, but he shook his head. "We'll talk about that later, too. But yes, Feyre—there can be High Ladies. And perhaps you aren't one of them, but … what if you were something similar? What if you were able to wield the power of seven High Lords at once? What if you could blend into darkness, or shape-shift, or freeze over an entire room—an entire army?"

The winter wind on the nearby peaks seemed to howl in answer. That thing I'd felt under my skin …

"Do you understand what that might mean in an oncoming war? Do you understand how it might destroy you if you don't learn to control it?"

"One, stop asking so many rhetorical questions. Two, we don't know if I do have these powers—"

"You do. But you need to start mastering them. To learn what you inherited from us."

"And I suppose you're the one to teach me, too? Reading and shielding aren't enough?"

"While you hunt with me for what I need, yes."

I began shaking my head. "Tamlin won't allow it."

"Tamlin isn't your keeper, and you know it."

"I'm his subject, and he is my High Lord—"

"You are no one's subject."

I went rigid at the flash of teeth, the smoke-like wings that flared out.

"I will say this once—and only once," Rhysand purred, stalking to the map on the wall. "You can be a pawn, be someone's reward, and spend the rest of your immortal life bowing and scraping and pretending you're less than him, than Ianthe, than any of us. If you want to pick that road, then fine. A shame, but it's your choice." The shadow of wings rippled again. "But I know you—more than you realize, I think—and I don't believe for one damn minute that you're remotely fine with being a pretty trophy for someone who sat on his ass for nearly fifty years, then sat on his ass while you were shredded apart—"

Fair point I'd wanted to add.

"Or," he plowed ahead, "you've got another choice. You can master whatever powers we gave to you, and make it count. You can play a role in this war. Because war is coming one way or another, and do not try to delude yourself that any of the Fae will give a shit about your family across the wall when our whole territory is likely to become a charnel house."

I stared at the map—at Prythian, and that sliver of land at its southern base.

"You want to save the mortal realm?" he asked. "Then become someone Prythian listens to. Become vital. Become a weapon. Because there might be a day, Feyre, when only you stand between the King of Hybern and your human family. And you do not want to be unprepared."

I lifted my gaze to him, my breath tight, aching.

As if he hadn't just knocked the world from beneath my feet, Rhysand said, "Think it over. Take the week. Ask Tamlin, if it'll make you sleep better. See what charming Ianthe says about it. But it's your choice to make—no one else's."

I didn't see Rhysand for the rest of the week. Or Mor.

The only people I encountered were Nuala and Cerridwen, who delivered my meals, made my bed, and occasionally asked how I was faring.

The only evidence I had at all that Rhys remained on the premises were the blank copies of the alphabet, along with several sentences I was to write every day, swapping out words, each one more obnoxious than the last:

Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord.

Rhysand is the most delightful High Lord.

Rhysand is the most cunning High Lord.

Every day, one miserable sentence—with one changing word of varying arrogance and vanity. And every day, another simple set of instructions: shield up, shield down; shield up, shield down. Over and over and over.

How he knew if I obeyed or not, I didn't care—but I threw myself into my lessons, I raised and lowered and thickened those mental shields. If only because it was all I had to do.

My nightmares left me groggy, sweaty—but the room was so open, the starlight so bright that when I'd jerk awake, I didn't rush to the toilet. No walls pushing in around me, no inky darkness. I knew where I was.

The day before our week finally finished, I was trudging to my usual little table, already grimacing at what delightful sentences I'd find waiting and all the mental acrobatics ahead, when Rhys's and Mor's voices floated toward me.

It was a public space, so I didn't bother masking my footsteps as I neared where they spoke in one of the sitting areas, Rhys pacing before the open plunge off the mountain, Mor lounging in a cream-colored armchair.

"Azriel would want to know that," Mor was saying.

"Azriel can go to hell," Rhys sniped back. "He likely already knows, anyway."About what? My curiosity roused.

"We played games the last time," Mor said with a seriousness that made me pause a healthy distance away, "and we lost. Badly. We're not going to do that again."

"You should be working," was Rhysand's only response. "I gave you control for a reason, you know."

Mor's jaw tightened, and she at last faced me. She gave me a smile that was more of a cringe.

Rhys turned, frowning at me. "Say what it is you came here to say, Mor," he said tightly, resuming his pacing.

Mor rolled her eyes for my benefit, but her face turned solemn as she said, "There was another attack—at a temple in Cesere. Almost every priestess slain, the trove looted."

By the Cauldron. I must have made some tiny noise, because Mor gave me a strained, but sympathetic look.

Rhys, though … First the shadows started—plumes of them from his back.

And then, as if his rage had loosened his grip on that beast he'd once told me he hated to yield to, those wings became flesh.

Great, beautiful, brutal wings, membranous and clawed like a bat's, dark as night and strong as hell. Even the way he stood seemed altered—steadier, grounded. Like some final piece of him had clicked into place. But Rhysand's voice was still midnight-soft and he said, "What did Azriel have to say about it?"

Again, that glance from Mor, as if unsure I should be present for whatever this conversation was. "He's pissed. Cassian even more so—he's convinced it must be one of the rogue Illyrian war-bands, intent on winning new territory."Wow.

"It's something to consider," Rhys mused. "Some of the Illyrian clans gleefully bowed to Amarantha during those years. Trying to expand their borders could be their way of seeing how far they can push me and get away with it." I hated the sound of her name, focused on it more than the information he was allowing me to glean.

"Cassian and Az are waiting—" She cut herself off and gave me an apologetic wince. "They're waiting in the usual spot for your orders."

Hit

Rhys studied the open air again, the howling wind that shoved dark, roiling clouds over the distant peaks. Good weather, I realized, for flying.

"Winnowing in would be easier," Mor said, following the High Lord's gaze.

"Tell the pricks I'll be there in a few hours," he merely said.

Mor gave me a wary grin, and vanished.

I studied the empty space where she'd been, not a trace of her left behind.

"How does that … vanishing work?" I said softly. I'd seen only a few High Fae do it—and no one had ever explained.

Rhys didn't look at me, but he said, "Winnowing? Think of it as … two different points on a piece of cloth. One point is your current place in the world. The other one across the cloth is where you want to go. Winnowing … it's like folding that cloth so the two spots align. The magic does the folding—and all we do is take a step to get from one place to another. Sometimes it's a long step, and you can feel the dark fabric of the world as you pass through it. A shorter step, let's say from one end of the room to the other, would barely register. It's a rare gift, and a helpful one. Though only the stronger Fae can do it. The more powerful you are, the farther you can jump between places in one go."

I knew the explanation was as much for my benefit as it was to distract himself. But I found myself saying, "I'm sorry about the temple—and the priestesses."

The wrath still glimmered in those eyes as he at last turned to me. "Plenty more people are going to die soon enough, anyway."

Maybe that was why he'd allowed me to get close, to overhear this conversation. To remind me of what might very well happen with Hybern.

"What are … ," I tried. "What are Illyrian war-bands?"

"Arrogant bastards, that's what," he .

I crossed my arms, waiting.

Rhys stretched his wings, the sunlight setting the leathery texture glowing with subtle color. "They're a warrior-race within my lands. And general pains in my ass."

"Some of them supported Amarantha?"

Darkness danced in the hall as that distant storm grew close enough to smother the sun. "Some. But me and mine have enjoyed ourselves hunting them down these past few months. And ending them."

Slowly was the word he didn't need to add.

"That's why you stayed away—you were busy with that?"

"I was busy with many things." In velaris.

Not an answer. But it seemed he was done talking to me, and whoever Cassian and Azriel were, meeting with them was far more important.

So Rhys didn't as much as say good-bye before he simply walked off the edge of the veranda—into thin air.

he swept past, swift as the wicked wind between the peaks. A few booming wing beats had him vanishing into the storm clouds.

"Good-bye to you, too," I grumbled, giving him a vulgar gesture, and started my work for the day, with only the storm raging beyond the house's shield for company.

Even as snow lashed the protective magic of the hall, even as I toiled over the sentences—Rhysand is interesting; Rhysand is gorgeous; Rhysand is flawless—and raised and lowered my mental shield until my mind was limping, I thought of what I'd heard, what they'd said.

I'd taken to eating in my rooms, but I swept up the stairs, heading across that massive open area, to the table at the far veranda.

Sprawled in his usual chair, Rhys was in the same clothes as yesterday, the collar of his black jacket unbuttoned, the shirt as rumpled as his hair. No wings, fortunately. I wondered if he'd just returned from wherever he'd met Mor and the others. Wondered what he'd learned.

"Good morning." I said a little dully. I didn't want to leave.

Rhys took a long sip of whatever was in his cup. It didn't look like tea. "Good morning, Feyre."

He studied my teal and gold clothes, a variation of my daily attire. If I had to admit, I loved them. "That color suits you."

"Yes.. " I said distractedly.

A faint smile. Bastard. "Are you ready to face the consequences of your departure?"

"It's none of your business."

"Right. You'll probably ignore it, anyway. Sweep it under the rug, like everything else."

"No one asked for your opinion, Rhys."

"And yet look at you. Your face has some color—and those marks under your eyes are almost gone. Your mental shield is stellar, by the way."

He shrugged and rose. "I'll tell Mor you said good-bye."

"I barely saw her all week." Just that first meeting—then that conversation yesterday. When we hadn't exchanged two words.


	19. Chapter 19

2 meeting:

"I'm not going back."Not—not until I figure things out." I felt free and happy now.

Rhysand summoned a mug of hot tea from nowhere and handed it to me. "Drink it."

I took the mug, letting its warmth soak into my stiff fingers. He watched me until I took a sip, and then went back to monitoring the mountains. I took another sip—peppermint and … licorice and another herb or spice.

When the mug was half-finished, I fished for something, anything, to say to keep the crushing silence at bay. "The darkness—is that … part of the power you gave me?"

"One would assume so."

I drained the rest of the mug. "No wings?"

"If you inherited some of Tamlin's shape-shifting, perhaps you can make wings of your own."

"And the other High Lords? Ice—that's Winter. That shield I once made of hardened wind—who did that come from? What might the others have given me? Is—is winnowing tied to any one of you in particular?"

He considered. "Wind? The Day Court, likely. And winnowing—it's not confined to any court. It's wholly dependent on your own reserve of power—and training." I didn't feel like mentioning how spectacularly I'd failed to even move an inch. "And as for the gifts you got from everyone else … That's for you to find out, I suppose."

"I should have known your goodwill would wear off after a minute."

Rhys let out a low chuckle and got to his feet, stretching his muscled arms over his head and rolling his neck. As if he'd been sitting there for a long, long while. For the entirety of the night. "Rest a day or two, Feyre," he said. "Then take on the task of figuring out everything else. I have business in another part of my lands; I'll be back by the end of the week."

Despite how long I'd slept, I was so tired—tired in my bones, in my crumpled heart. When I didn't reply, Rhys strode off between the moonstone pillars.

And I saw how I would spend the next few days: in solitude, with nothing to do and only my own, horrible thoughts for company. I began speaking before I could reconsider. "Take me with you."

Rhys halted as he pushed through two purple gossamer curtains. And slowly, he turned back. "You should rest."

"I've rested enough," I said, setting down the empty mug and standing. My head spun slightly. When had I last eaten? "Wherever you're going, whatever you're doing—take me along. I'll stay out of trouble. Just … Please." I hated the last word; choked on it. It hadn't done anything to sway Tamlin.

For a long moment, Rhys said nothing. Then he prowled toward me, his long stride eating up the distance and his face set like stone. "If you come with me, there is no going back. You will not be allowed to speak of what you see to anyone outside of my court. Because if you do, people will die—my people will die. So if you come, you will have to lie about it forever; if you return to the Spring Court, you cannot tell anyone there what you see, and who you meet, and what you will witness. If you would rather not have that between you and—your friends, then stay here."

Stay here, stay locked up in the Spring Court … My chest was a gaping, open wound. I wondered if I'd bleed out from it—if a spirit could bleed out and die. Maybe that had already happened. "Take me with you," I breathed. "I won't tell anyone what I see. Even—them." I couldn't bear to say his name.

Rhys studied me for a few heartbeats. And finally he gave me a half smile. "We leave in ten minutes. If you want to freshen up, go ahead."

An polite reminder that I probably looked like the dead. I felt like it. But I said, "Where are we going?"

Rhys's smile widened into a grin. "To Velaris—the City of Starlight."Home.

By the time I returned to the main atrium, Rhys was leaning against a moonstone pillar, picking at his nails. He merely said, "That was fifteen minutes," before extending his hand.

I had no glimmering ember to even try to look like I cared about his taunting before we were swallowed by the roaring darkness.

Wind and night and stars wheeled by as he winnowed us through the world, and the calluses of his hand scratched against my own fading ones before—

Before sunlight, not starlight, greeted me. Squinting at the brightness, I found myself standing in what was unmistakably the foyer of the house of wind.

The ornate red carpet cushioned the one step I staggered away from him as I surveyed the warm, wood-paneled walls, the artwork, the straight, wide oak staircase ahead.

Flanking us were two rooms: on my left, a sitting room with a black marble fireplace, lots of comfortable, elegant, but worn furniture, and bookshelves built into every wall. On my right: a dining room with a long, cherrywood table big enough for ten people—small, compared to the dining room at the manor. Down the slender hallway ahead were a few more doors, ending in one that I assumed would lead to a kitchen. A town house.

I'd visited one once, when I was a child and my father had brought me along to the largest town in our territory: it'd belonged to a fantastically wealthy client, and had smelled like coffee and mothballs. A pretty place, but stuffy—formal.

This house … this house was a home that had been lived in and enjoyed and cherished.

And it was in a city.

PART TWO

THE HOUSE OF WIND

CHAPTER

14

"Welcome to my home," Rhysand said.

A city—a world lay out there.

Morning sunlight streamed through the windows lining the front of the town house. The ornately carved wood door before me was inset with fogged glass that peeked into a small antechamber and the actual front door beyond it, shut and solid against whatever city lurked beyond..

I hadn't dredged up the focus to ask until now, hadn't given an ounce of room to consider that this might be a mistake, but … "What is this place?"

Rhys leaned a broad shoulder against the carved oak threshold that led into the sitting room and crossed his arms. "This is my house. Well, I have two homes in the city. One is for more … official business, but this is only for me and my family."

I listened for any servants but heard none. Good—maybe that was good, rather than have people weeping and gawking.

"Nuala and Cerridwen are here," he said, reading my glance down the hall behind us. "But other than that, it'll just be the two of us."

Rhysand opened his mouth, but then the silhouettes of two tall, powerful bodies appeared on the other side of the front door's fogged glass. One of them banged on it with a fist.

"Hurry up, you lazy ass," a deep male voice drawled from the antechamber beyond. Exhaustion drugged me so heavily that I didn't particularly care that there were wings peeking over their two shadowy forms.

Rhys didn't so much as blink toward the door. "Two things, Feyre darling."

The pounding continued, followed by the second male murmuring to his companion, "If you're going to pick a fight with him, do it after breakfast." That voice—like shadows given form, dark and smooth and … cold.

"I wasn't the one who hauled me out of bed just now to fly down here," the first one said. Then added, "Busybody."

I could have sworn a smile tugged on Rhys's lips as he went on, "One, no one—no one—but Mor and I are able to winnow directly inside this house. It is warded, shielded, and then warded some more. Only those I wish—and you wish—may enter. You are safe here; and safe anywhere in this city, for that matter. Velaris's walls are well protected and have not been breached in five thousand years. No one with ill intent enters this city unless I allow it. So go where you wish, do what you wish, and see who you wish. Those two in the antechamber," he added, eyes sparkling, "might not be on that list of people you should bother knowing, if they keep banging on the door like children."

Another pound, emphasized by the first male voice saying, "You know we can hear you, prick."Cassian then.

"Secondly," Rhys went on, "in regard to the two bastards at my door, it's up to you whether you want to meet them now, or head upstairs like a wise person, take a nap since you're still looking a little peaky, and then change into city-appropriate clothing while I beat the hell out of one of them for talking to his High Lord like that."

There was such light in his eyes. It made him look … younger, somehow. More mortal. So at odds with the icy rage I'd seen earlier when I'd awoken …

I was drowning in that old heaviness, clawing my way up to a surface that might not ever exist. I'd slept for the Mother knew how long, and yet … "Just come get me later."

That joy dimmed a little, and Rhys looked like he might say something else, but a female voice—crisp and edged—now sounded behind the two males in the antechamber. "You Illyrians are worse than cats yowling to be let in the back door." The knob jangled. Amren, or mor I couldn't tell,sighed sharply. "Really, Rhysand? You locked us out?"

Fighting to keep that immense heaviness at bay a bit longer, I made for the stairs—at the top of which now stood Nuala and Cerridwen, wincing at the front door. I could have sworn Cerridwen subtly gestured me to hurry up. And I might have kissed both twins for that bit of normalcy.

I might have kissed Rhys, too, for waiting to open the front door until I was halfway down the cerulean-blue hallway on the second level.

All I heard was that first male voice declare, "Welcome home, bastard," followed by the Azriel saying, "I sensed you were back. Mor filled me in, but I—"

Amren cut him off. "Send your dogs out in the yard to play, Rhysand. You and I have matters to discuss."

That midnight voice said with quiet cold that licked down my spine, "As do I."

Then Cassian drawled to her, "We were here first. Wait your turn, Tiny Ancient One."

On either side of me, Nuala and Cerridwen flinched, either from holding in laughter or some vestige of fear, or perhaps both. Definitely both as a feminine snarl sliced through the house—albeit a bit halfheartedly.

The upstairs hall was punctuated with chandeliers of swirled, colored glass, illuminating the few polished doors on either side. I wondered which belonged to Rhysand—and then wondered which one belonged to Mor as I heard her yawn amid the fray below:

"Why is everyone here so early? I thought we were meeting tonight at the House."

Below, Rhysand grumbled—grumbled—"Trust me, there's no party. Only a massacre, if Cassian doesn't shut his mouth."

"We're hungry," that first male—Cassian—complained. "Feed us. Someone told me there'd be breakfast."

"Pathetic," that strange female voice quipped. "You idiots are pathetic."

Mor said, "We know that's true. But is there food?"

I heard the words—heard and processed them. And then they floated into the blackness of my mind.

Nuala and Cerridwen opened a door, leading to a fire-warmed, sunlit room. It faced a walled, winter-kissed garden in the back of the town house, the large windows peering over the sleeping stone fountain in its center, drained for the season. Everything in the bedroom itself was of rich wood and soft white, with touches of subtle sage. It felt, strangely enough, almost human.

And the bed—massive, plush, adorned in quilts and duvets of cream and ivory to keep out the winter chill—that looked the most welcoming of all.

But I wasn't so far gone that I couldn't ask a few basic questions—to at least give myself the illusion of caring a bit about my own welfare.

"Who was that?" I managed to say as they shut the door behind us.

Nuala headed for the small attached bathing room—white marble, a claw-foot tub, more sunny windows that overlooked the garden wall and the thick line of cypress trees that stood watch behind it. Cerridwen, already stalking for the armoire, cringed a bit and said over a shoulder, "They're Rhysand's Inner Circle."

The ones I'd heard mentioned that day at the Night Court—who Rhys kept going to meet. "I wasn't aware that High Lords kept things so casual," I admitted.

"They don't," Nuala said, returning from the bathing room with a brush. "But Rhysand does."

Apparently, my hair was a mess, because Nuala brushed it as Cerridwen pulled out some ivory sleeping clothes—a warm and soft lace-trimmed top and pants.

I took in the clothes, then the room, then the winter garden and the slumbering fountain beyond, and Rhysand's earlier words clicked into place.

Alone, I slid into the bed, feeling the softness, the smoothness of the sheets.

I listened to the crackling fire, the chirp of birds in the garden's potted evergreens—so different from the spring-sweet melodies I was used to. That I might never be able to endure again.

And a crueler part of me wondered if my never returning might be a fitting punishment for him. For what he had done to me.

Sleep claimed me, swift and brutal and deep.

CHAPTER

15

I awoke four hours later.

It took me minutes to remember where I was, what had happened. And each tick of the little clock on the rosewood writing desk was a shove back-back-back into that heavy dark. But at least I wasn't tired. Weary, but no longer on the cusp of feeling like sleeping forever.

Mercifully, Rhysand's Inner Circle left before I'd finished dressing.

Rhys was waiting at the front door—which was open to the small wood-and-marble antechamber, which in turn was open to the street beyond. He ran an eye over me, from the suede navy shoes—practical and comfortably made—to the knee-length sky-blue overcoat, to the braid that began on one side of my head and curved around the back. Beneath the coat, my usual flimsy attire had been replaced by thicker, warmer brown pants, and a pretty cream sweater that was so soft I could have slept in it. Knitted gloves that matched my shoes had already been stuffed into the coat's deep pockets.

"Those two certainly like to fuss," Rhysand said, though something about it was strained as we headed out the front door.

Each step toward that bright threshold was both an eternity and an invitation.

For a moment, the weight in me vanished as I gobbled down the details of the emerging city:

Buttery sunlight that softened the already mild winter day, a small, manicured front lawn—its dried grass near-white—bordered with a waist-high wrought iron fence and empty flower beds, all leading toward a clean street of pale cobblestones. High Fae in various forms of dress meandered by: some in coats like mine to ward against the crisp air, some wearing mortal fashions with layers and poofy skirts and lace, some in riding leathers—all unhurried as they breathed in the salt-and-lemon-verbena breeze that even winter couldn't chase away. Not one of them looked toward the house. As if they either didn't know or weren't worried that their own High Lord dwelled in one of the many marble town houses lining either side of the street, each capped with a green copper roof and pale chimneys that puffed tendrils of smoke into the brisk sky.

In the distance, children shrieked with laughter.

I staggered to the front gate, unlatching it with fumbling fingers that hardly registered the ice-cold metal, and took all of three steps into the street before I halted at the sight at the other end.

The street sloped down, revealing more pretty town houses and puffing chimneys, more well-fed, unconcerned people. And at the very bottom of the hill curved a broad, winding river, sparkling like deepest sapphire, snaking toward a vast expanse of water beyond.

The sea.

The city had been built like a crust atop the rolling, steep hills that flanked the river, the buildings crafted from white marble or warm sandstone. Ships with sails of varying shapes loitered in the river, the white wings of birds shining brightly above them in the midday sun.

No monsters. No darkness. Not a hint of fear, of despair.

Untouched.

The city has not been breached in five thousand years.

"The middle peak," Rhys said from behind me, and I whirled, remembering he was there. He just pointed toward the largest of the plateaus. Holes and—windows seemed to have been built into the uppermost part of it. And flying toward it, borne on large, dark wings, were two figures. "That's my other home in this city. The House of Wind."

Sure enough, the flying figures swerved on what looked to be a wicked, fast current.

"We'll be dining there tonight," he added, and I couldn't tell if he sounded irritated or resigned about it. Probably both, he wanted to dine at the town house.

I turned toward the city again and said, "How?"

He understood what I meant. "Luck."

"Luck? Very good luck then." I said quietly, but not weakly. What he had given—

The wind ruffled Rhys's dark hair, his face unreadable.

After a day out, I finally said "I'm tired."

His throat bobbed, but he nodded, turning from the Rainbow. "Tomorrow night, we'll go for a walk. Velaris is lovely in the day, but it was built to be viewed after dark."Yes... Magnificent.

I'd expect nothing less from the City of Starlight, but words had again become difficult.

But—dinner. With him. At that House of Wind. I mustered enough focus to say, "Who, exactly, is going to be at this dinner?"

Rhys led us up a steep street, my thighs burning with the movement. Had I become so out of shape, so weakened? "My Inner Circle," he said. "I want you to meet them before you decide if this is a place you'd like to stay. If you'd like to work with me, and thus work with them. Mor, you've met, but the three others—"

"The ones who came this afternoon."

A nod. "Cassian, Azriel, and Amren."

"Who are they?" He'd said something about Illyrians, but Amren—the female voice I'd heard—hadn't possessed wings. At least ones I'd glimpsed through the fogged glass.

"There are tiers," he said neutrally, "within our circle. Amren is my Second in command."

Rhys said, "Yes. And Mor is my Third. Only a fool would think my Illyrian warriors were the apex predators in our circle." Irreverent, cheerful Mor—was Third to the High Lord of the Night Court. Rhys went on, "You'll see what I mean when you meet Amren. She looks High Fae, but something different prowls beneath her skin." Rhys nodded to a passing couple, who bowed their heads in merry greeting. "She might be older than this city, but she's vain, and likes to hoard her baubles and belongings like a firedrake in a cave. So … be on your guard. You both have tempers when provoked, and I don't want you to have any surprises tonight."

Some part of me didn't want to know what manner of creature, exactly, she was. "So if we get into a brawl and I rip off her necklace, she'll roast and eat me?"

He chuckled. "No—Amren would do far, far worse things than that. The last time Amren and Mor got into it, they left my favorite mountain retreat in cinders." He lifted a brow. "For what it's worth, I'm the most powerful High Lord in Prythian's history, and merely interrupting Amren is something I've only done once in the past century."

The most powerful High Lord in history.

In the countless millennia they had existed here in Prythian, Rhys—Rhys with his smirking and sarcasm and bedroom eyes …And powers...

And Amren was worse. And older than five thousand years.

I waited for the fear to hit; waited for my body to shriek to find a way to get out of this dinner, but … nothing. Maybe it'd be a mercy to be ended—

A broad hand gripped my face—gently enough not to hurt, but hard enough to make me look at him. "Don't you ever think that," Rhysand hissed, his eyes livid. "Not for one damned moment."Oh... oops, mental shield... But.. that was planned.

That bond between us went taut, and my lingering mental shields collapsed. And for a heartbeat, just as it had happened Under the Mountain, I flashed from my body to his—from my eyes to his own.

I had not realized … how I looked …

My face was gaunt, my cheekbones sharp, my blue-gray eyes dull and smudged with purple beneath. The full lips—my father's mouth—were wan, and my collarbones jutted above the thick wool neckline of my sweater. I looked as if … as if rage and grief and despair had eaten me alive, as if I was again starved. Not for food, but … but for joy and life—

Then I was back in my body, seething at him. "Was that a trick?"

His voice was hoarse as he lowered his hand from my face. "No." He angled his head to the side. "How did you get through it? My shield."

I didn't know what he was talking about. I hadn't done anything. Just … slipped. And I didn't want to talk about it, not here, not now. I stormed into a walk, my legs—so damn thin, so useless—burning with every step up the steep hill.

He gripped my elbow, again with that considerate gentleness, but strong enough to make me pause. "How many other minds have you accidentally slipped into?"

Lucien—

"Lucien?" A short laugh. "What a miserable place to be."

A low snarl rippled from me. "Do not go into my head."

"Your shield is down." I hauled it back up. "You might as well have been shouting his name at me." Again, that contemplative angling of his head. "Perhaps you having my power … " He chewed on his bottom lip, then snorted. "It'd make sense, of course, if the power came from me—if my own shield sometimes mistook you for me and let you slip past. Fascinating."

I debated spitting on his boots. "Take your power back. I don't want it."

A sly smile. "It doesn't work that way. The power is bound to your life. The only way to get it back would be to kill you. And since I like your company, I'll pass on the offer." We walked a few steps before he said, "You need to be vigilant about keeping your mental wards up. Especially now that you've seen Velaris. If you ever go somewhere else, beyond these lands, and someone slipped into your mind and saw this place …" A muscle quivered in his jaw. "We're called daemati—those of us who can walk into another person's mind as if we were going from one room to another. We're rare, and the trait appears as the Mother wills it, but there are enough of us scattered throughout the world that many—mostly those in positions of influence—extensively train against our skill set. If you were to ever encounter a daemati without those shields up, Feyre, they'd take whatever they wanted. A more powerful one could make you their unwitting slave, make you do whatever they wanted and you'd never know it. My lands remain mystery enough to outsiders that some would find you, among other things, a highly valuable source of information."

Around us, the city twinkled, the stars themselves seeming to hang lower, pulsing with ruby and amethyst and pearl. Above, the full moon set the marble of the buildings and bridges glowing as if they were all lit from within. Music played, strings and gentle drums, and on either side of the Sidra, golden lights bobbed over riverside walkways dotted with cafés and shops, all open for the night, already packed.

Life—so full of life. I could nearly taste it crackling on my tongue.

"The House of Wind is warded against people winnowing inside—exactly like this house. Even against High Lords. Don't ask me why, or who did it. But the option is either walk up the ten thousand steps, which I really do not feel like doing, Feyre, or fly in." Moonlight glazed the talon at the apex of each wing. He gave me a slow grin that I hadn't seen all afternoon. "I promise I won't drop you."

I frowned at the midnight-blue dress I'd selected—even with the long sleeves and heavy, luxurious fabric, the plunging vee of the neckline did nothing against the cold. I'd debated wearing the sweater and thicker pants, but had opted for finery over comfort. I already regretted it, even with the coat. But if his Inner Circle was anything like Tamlin's court … better to wear the more formal attire. I winced at the swath of night between the roof and the mountain-residence. "The wind will rip the gown right off."

His grin became ... Mate. Instincts...

Smooth membrane—flecked with a hint of iridescence. I peeled back. "Nuala spent an hour on my hair."

An exaggeration, but she had fussed while I'd sat there in hollow silence, letting her tease the ends into soft curls and pin a section along the top of my head with pretty gold barrettes. But maybe staying inside tonight, alone and quiet … maybe it'd be better than facing these people. Than interacting.

Rhys's wing curved around me, herding me closer to where I could nearly feel the heat of his powerful body. "I promise I won't let the wind destroy your hair." He lifted a hand as if he might tug on one of those loose curls, then lowered it.

"If I'm to decide whether I want to work against Hybern with you—with your Inner Circle, can't we just … meet here?"

"They're all up there already. And besides, the House of Wind has enough space that I won't feel like chucking them all off the mountain."

I swallowed. Sure enough, curving along the top of the center mountain behind us, floors of lights glinted, as if the mountain had been crowned in gold. And between me and that crown of light was a long, long stretch of open air. "You mean," I said, because it might have been the only weapon in my arsenal, "that this town house is too small, and their personalities are too big, and you're worried I might lose it again."

His wing pushed me closer, a whisper of warmth on my shoulder. "So what if I am?"

"I'm not some broken doll." Even if this afternoon, that conversation we'd had, what I'd glimpsed through his eyes, said otherwise. But I yielded another step.

"I know you're not. But that doesn't mean I'll throw you to the wolves. If you meant what you said about wanting to work with me to keep Hybern from these lands, keep the wall intact, I want you to meet my friends first. Decide on your own if it's something you can handle. And I want this meeting to be on my terms, not whenever they decide to ambush this house again."

But he tightened his arm. Bracing me for takeoff. Mother save me. "You say the word tonight, and we come back here, no questions asked. And if you can't stomach working with me, with them, then no questions asked on that, either. We can find some other way for you to live here, be fulfilled, regardless of what I need. It's your choice, Feyre."

I debated pushing him on it—on insisting I stay. But stay for what? To sleep? To avoid a meeting I should most certainly have before deciding what I wanted to do with myself? And to fly …

I studied the wings, the arm around my waist. "Please don't drop me. And please don't—"Do what you are now going to do.

We shot into the sky, fast as a shooting star.

Before my yelp finished echoing, the city had yawned wide beneath us. Rhys's hand slid under my knees while the other wrapped around my back and ribs, and we flapped up, up, up into the star-freckled night, into the liquid dark and singing wind.

The city lights dropped away until Velaris was a rippling velvet blanket littered with jewels, until the music no longer reached even our pointed ears. The air was chill, but no wind other than a gentle breeze brushed my face—even as we soared with magnificent precision for the House of Wind.

Rhys's body was hard and warm against mine, a solid force of nature crafted and honed for this. Even the smell of him reminded me of the wind—rain and salt and something citrus-y I couldn't name.

We swerved into an updraft, rising so fast it was instinct to clutch his black tunic as my stomach clenched. I scowled at the soft laugh that tickled my ear. "I expected more screaming from you. I must not be trying hard enough."

"Do not," I hissed, focusing on the approaching tiara of lights in the eternal wall of the mountain.

With the sky wheeling overhead and the lights shooting past below, up and down became mirrors—until we were sailing through a sea of stars. Something tight in my chest eased a fraction of its grip.

"When I was a boy," Rhys said in my ear, "I'd sneak out of the House of Wind by leaping out my window—and I'd fly and fly all night, just making loops around the city, the river, the sea. Sometimes I still do."

"Your parents must have been thrilled."

"My father never knew—and my mother …" A pause. "She was Illyrian. Some nights, when she caught me right as I leaped out the window, she'd scold me … and then jump out herself to fly with me until dawn."

"She sounds lovely," I admitted.

"She was," he said. And those two words told me enough about his past that I didn't pry.

A maneuver had us rising higher, until we were in direct line with a broad balcony, gilded by the light of golden lanterns. At the far end, built into the red mountain itself, two glass doors were already open, revealing a large, but surprisingly casual dining room carved from the stone, and accented with rich wood. Each chair fashioned, I noted, to accomodate wings.

Rhys's landing was as smooth as his takeoff, though he kept an arm beneath my shoulders as my knees buckled at the adjustment. I shook off his touch, and faced the city behind us.

I'd spent so much time squatting in trees that heights had lost their primal terror long ago. But the sprawl of the city … worse, the vast expanse of dark beyond—the sea … Maybe I remained a human fool to feel that way, but I had not realized the size of the world. The size of Prythian, if a city this large could remain hidden from Amarantha, from the other courts.

Rhysand was silent beside me. Yet after a moment, he said, "Out with it."

I lifted a brow.

"You say what's on your mind—one thing. And I'll say one, too."

I shook my head and turned back to the city.

But Rhys said, "I'm thinking that I spent fifty years locked Under the Mountain, and I'd sometimes let myself dream of this place, but I never expected to see it again. I'm thinking that I wish I had been the one who slaughtered her. I'm thinking that if war comes, it might be a long while yet before I get to have a night like this."

He slid his eyes to me, expectant.

I didn't bother asking again how he'd kept this place from her, not when he was likely to refuse to answer. So I said, "Do you think war will be here that soon?"

"This was a no-questions-asked invitation. I told you … three things. Tell me one."

I stared toward the open world, the city and the restless sea and the dry winter night.

Maybe it was some shred of courage, or recklessness, or I was so high above everything that no one save Rhys and the wind could hear, but I said, "I'm thinking that I must have been a fool in love to allow myself to be shown so little of the Spring Court. I'm thinking there's a great deal of that territory I was never allowed to see or hear about and maybe I would have lived in ignorance forever like some pet. I'm thinking … " The words became choked. I shook my head as if I could clear the remaining ones away. But I still spoke them. "I'm thinking that I was a lonely, hopeless person, and I might have fallen in love with the first thing that showed me a hint of kindness and safety. And I'm thinking maybe he knew that—maybe not actively, but maybe he wanted to be that person for someone. And maybe that worked for who I was before. Maybe it doesn't work for who—what I am now."

There.

The words, hateful and selfish and ungrateful. For all Tamlin had done—

The thought of his name clanged through me. Only yesterday afternoon, I had been there. No—no, I wouldn't think about it. Not yet.

Rhysand said, "That was five. Looks like I owe you two thoughts." He glanced behind us. "Later."

Because the two winged males from earlier were standing in the doorway.

Grinning.

CHAPTER

16

Rhys sauntered toward the two males standing by the dining room doors, giving me the option to stay or join.

One word, he'd promised, and we could go.

Both of them were tall, their wings tucked in tight to powerful, muscled bodies covered in plated, dark leather that reminded me of the worn scales of some serpentine beast. Identical long swords were each strapped down the column of their spines—the blades beautiful in their simplicity. Perhaps I needn't have bothered with the fine clothes after all.

The slightly larger of the two, his face masked in shadow, chuckled and said, "Come on, Feyre. We don't bite. Unless you ask us to."

I strolled to them casual as you please a faint smile on my lips.

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets. "The last I heard, Cassian, no one has ever taken you up on that offer."

The second one snorted, the faces of both males at last illuminated as they turned toward the golden light of the dining room, and I honestly wondered why no one hadn't: if Rhysand's mother had also been Illyrian, then its people were blessed with unnatural good looks.

Like their High Lord, the males—warriors—were dark-haired, tan-skinned. But unlike Rhys, their eyes were hazel and fixed on me as I at last stepped close—to the waiting House of Wind behind them.

That was where any similarities between the three of them halted.

Cassian surveyed Rhys from head to foot, his shoulder-length black hair shifting with the movement. "So fancy tonight, brother. And you made poor Feyre dress up, too." He winked at me. There was something rough-hewn about his features—like he'd been made of wind and earth and flame and all these civilized trappings were little more than an inconvenience.

But the second male, the more classically beautiful of the two … Even the light shied from the elegant planes of his face. With good reason. Beautiful, but near-unreadable. He'd be the one to look out for—the knife in the dark. Indeed, an obsidian-hilted hunting knife was sheathed at his thigh, its dark scabbard embossed with a line of silver runes I'd never seen before.

Rhys said, "This is Azriel—my spymaster." Not surprising. Some buried instinct had me checking that my mental shields were intact. Just in case.

"Welcome," was all Azriel said, his voice low, almost flat, as he extended a brutally scarred hand to me. The shape of it was normal—but the skin … It looked like it had been swirled and smudged and rippled. Burns. They must have been horrific if even their immortal blood had not been able to heal them.

I took Azriel's hand, and his rough fingers squeezed mine. His skin was as cold as his face.

But the word Cassian had used a moment ago snagged my attention as I released his hand and tried not to look too eager to step back to Rhys's side. "You're brothers?" The Illyrians looked similar, but only in the way that people who had come from the same place did.

Rhysand clarified, "Brothers in the sense that all bastards are brothers of a sort."

I'd never thought of it that way. "And—you?" I asked Cassian.

Cassian shrugged, wings tucking in tighter. "I command Rhys's armies."

As if such a position were something that one shrugged off. And—armies. Rhys had armies. I shifted on my feet. Cassian's hazel eyes tracked the movement, his mouth twitching to the side, and I honestly thought he was about to give me his professional opinion on how doing so would make me unsteady against an opponent when Azriel clarified, "Cassian also excels at pissing everyone off. Especially amongst our friends. So, as a friend of Rhysand … good luck."

A friend of Rhysand—not savior of their land, not murderer, not human-faerie-thing.

But Cassian nudged his bastard-brother-whatever out of the way, Azriel's mighty wings flaring slightly as he balanced himself. "How the hell did you make that bone ladder in the Middengard Wyrm's lair when you look like your own bones can snap at any moment?"

I met Cassian's gaze, if only because having Rhysand defend me might very well make me crumble a bit more. And maybe it made me as mean as an adder, maybe I relished being one, but I said, "How the hell did you manage to survive this long without anyone killing you?"

Cassian tipped back his head and laughed, a full, rich sound that bounced off the ruddy stones of the House. Azriel's brows flicked up with approval as the shadows seemed to wrap tighter around him. As if he were the dark hive from which they flew and returned.

Rhys's face was blank, but his eyes were wary. Assessing. I almost demanded what the hell he was looking at, until Mor breezed onto the balcony with, "If Cassian's howling, I hope it means Feyre told him to shut his fat mouth."

Both Illyrians turned toward her, Cassian bracing his feet slightly farther apart on the floor in a fighting stance I knew all too well.

It was almost enough to distract me from noticing Azriel as those shadows lightened, and his gaze slid over Mor's body: a red, flowing gown of chiffon accented with gold cuffs, and combs fashioned like gilded leaves swept back the waves of her unbound hair.

A wisp of shadow curled around Azriel's ear, and his eyes snapped to mine. I schooled my face into bland innocence.

"I don't know why I ever forget you two are related," Cassian told Mor, jerking his chin at Rhys, who rolled his eyes. "You two and your clothes."

Mor sketched a bow to Cassian. Indeed, I tried not to slump with relief at the sight of the fine clothes. At least I wouldn't look overdressed now. "I wanted to impress Feyre. You could have at least bothered to comb your hair."

"Unlike some people," Cassian said, proving my suspicions correct about that fighting stance, "I have better things to do with my time than sit in front of the mirror for hours."

"Yes," Mor said, tossing her long hair over a shoulder, "since swaggering around Velaris—"

"We have company," was Azriel's soft warning, wings again spreading a bit as he herded them through the open balcony doors to the dining room. I could have sworn tendrils of darkness swirled in their wake.

Mor patted Azriel on the shoulder as she dodged his outstretched wing. "Relax, Az—no fighting tonight. We promised Rhys."

The lurking shadows vanished entirely as Azriel's head dipped a bit—his night-dark hair sliding over his handsome face as if to shield him from that mercilessly beautiful grin.

Mor gave no indication that she noticed and curved her fingers toward me. "Come sit with me while they drink." I obeyed, falling into step beside her as the two Illyrians drifted back to walk the few steps with their High Lord. "Unless you'd rather drink," Mor offered as we entered the warmth and red stone of the dining room. "But I want you to myself before Amren hogs you—"

The interior dining room doors opened on a whispering wind, revealing the shadowed, crimson halls of the mountain beyond.

She was several inches shorter than me, her chin-length black hair glossy and straight, her skin tan and smooth, and her face—pretty, bordering on plain—was bored, if not mildly irritated. But Amren's eyes …

Her silver eyes were unlike anything I'd ever seen; a glimpse into the creature that I knew in my bones wasn't High Fae. Or hadn't been born that way.

The silver in Amren's eyes seemed to swirl like smoke under glass.

She wore pants and a top like those I'd worn at the other mountain-palace, both in shades of pewter and storm cloud, and pearls—white and gray and black—adorned her ears, fingers, and wrists. Even the High Lord at my side felt like a wisp of shadow compared to the power thrumming from her.

Mor groaned, slumping into a chair near the end of the table, and poured herself a glass of wine. Cassian took a seat across from her, wiggling his fingers for the wine bottle. But Rhysand and Azriel just stood there, watching—maybe monitoring—as the female approached me, then halted three feet away.

"Your taste remains excellent, High Lord. Thank you." Her voice was soft—but honed sharper than any blade I'd encountered. Her slim, small fingers grazed a delicate silver-and-pearl brooch pinned above her right breast.

So that's who he'd bought the jewelry for. The jewelry I was to never, under any circumstances, try to steal.

I studied Rhys and Amren, as if I might be able to read what further bond lay between them, but Rhysand waved a hand and bowed his head. "It suits you, Amren."

"Everything suits me," she said, and those horrible, enchanting eyes again met my own. Like leashed lightning.

She took a step closer, sniffing delicately, and though I stood half a foot taller, I'd never felt meeker. But I held my chin up. I didn't know why, but I did.

Amren said, "So there are two of us now."

My brows nudged toward each other.

Amren's lips were a slash of red. "We who were born something else—and found ourselves trapped in new, strange bodies.".

Amren jerked her chin at me to sit in the empty chair beside Mor, her hair shifting like molten night. She claimed the seat across from me, Azriel on her other side as Rhys took the one across from him—on my right.

No one at the head of the table.

"Though there is a third," Amren said, now looking at Rhysand. "I don't think you've heard from Miryam in … centuries. Interesting."

Cassian rolled his eyes. "Please just get to the point, Amren. I'm hungry."

Mor choked on her wine. Amren slid her attention to the warrior to her right. Azriel, on her other side, monitored the two of them very, very carefully. "No one warming your bed right now, Cassian? It must be so hard to be an Illyrian and have no thoughts in your head save for those about your favorite part."

"You know I'm always happy to tangle in the sheets with you, Amren," Cassian said, utterly unfazed by the silver eyes, the power radiating from her every pore. "I know how much you enjoy Illyrian—"

"Miryam," Rhysand said, as Amren's smile became serpentine, "and Drakon are doing well, as far as I've heard. And what, exactly, is interesting?"

Amren's head tilted to the side as she studied me. I tried not to shrink from it. "Only once before was a human Made into an immortal. Interesting that it should happen again right as all the ancient players have returned. But Miryam was gifted long life—not a new body. And you, girl …" She sniffed again, and I'd never felt so laid bare. Surprise lit Amren's eyes. Oh.. She'd smelt the mating bond... Interesting. Rhys just nodded. "Your very blood, your veins, your bones were Made. A mortal soul in an immortal body."

"I'm hungry," Mor said nudging me with a thigh. She snapped a finger, and plates piled high with roast chicken, greens, and bread appeared. Simple, but … elegant. Not formal at all. Perhaps the sweater and pants wouldn't have been out of place for such a meal. "Amren and Rhys can talk all night and bore us to tears, so don't bother waiting for them to dig in." She picked up her fork, clicking her tongue. "I asked Rhys if I could take you to dinner, just the two of us, and he said you wouldn't want to. But honestly—would you rather spend time with those two ancient bores, or me?"

"For someone who is the same age as me," Rhys drawled, "you seem to forget—"

"Everyone wants to talk-talk-talk," Mor said, giving a warning glare at Cassian, who had indeed opened his mouth. "Can't we eat-eat-eat, and then talk?"

Azriel chuckled softly at Mor, but picked up his fork. I followed suit, being very hungry.

Good. So good. And the wine—

I hadn't even realized Mor had poured me a glass until I finished my first sip, and she clinked her own against mine. "Don't let these old busybodies boss you around."

Cassian said, "Pot. Kettle. Black." Then he frowned at Amren, who had hardly touched her plate. "I always forget how bizarre that is." He unceremoniously took her plate, dumping half the contents on his own before passing the rest to Azriel.

Azriel said to Amren as he slid the food onto his plate, "I keep telling him to ask before he does that."

Amren flicked her fingers and the empty plate vanished from Azriel's scarred hands. "If you haven't been able to train him after all these centuries, boy, I don't think you'll make any progress now." She straightened the silverware on the vacant place setting before her.

"You don't eat?" I said to her. The first words I'd spoken since sitting.

Amren's teeth were unnervingly white. "Not this sort of food."

"Cauldron boil me," Mor said, gulping from her wine. "Can we not?"

Rhys chuckled from my other side. "Remind me to have family dinners more often."

Across from me, a cocoon of silence seemed to pulse around Azriel, even as the others dug into their food. I again peered at that oval of blue stone on his gauntlet as he sipped from his glass of wine. Azriel noted the look, swift as it had been—as I had a feeling he'd been noticing and cataloging all of my movements, words, and breaths. He held up his hands, the backs to me so both jewels were on full display. "They're called Siphons. They concentrate and focus our power in battle."

Only he and Cassian wore them.

Rhys set down his fork, and clarified for me, "The power of stronger Illyrians tends toward 'incinerate now, ask questions later.' They have little magical gifts beyond that—the killing power."

"The gift of a violent, warmongering people," Amren added. Azriel nodded, shadows wreathing his neck, his wrists. Cassian gave him a sharp look, face tightening, but Azriel ignored him.

Rhys went on, though I knew he was aware of every glance between the spymaster and army commander, "The Illyrians bred the power to give them advantage in battle, yes. The Siphons filter that raw power and allow Cassian and Azriel to transform it into something more subtle and varied—into shields and weapons, arrows and spears. Imagine the difference between hurling a bucket of paint against the wall and using a brush. The Siphons allow for the magic to be nimble, precise on the battlefield—when its natural state lends itself toward something far messier and unrefined, and potentially dangerous when you're fighting in tight quarters."

Cassian flexed his fingers, admiring the clear red stones adorning the backs of his own broad hands. "Doesn't hurt that they also look damn good."

Amren muttered, "Illyrians."

Cassian bared his teeth in feral amusement, and took a drink of his wine.

I cleared my throat, straightening, and said to Azriel, who, shadows or no, seemed the safest and therefore was probably the least so, "How did you meet?" A harmless question.

But Cassian seemed to process what I'd asked and his friend's silent request that he tell the story instead, and a grin ghosted across his face. "We all hated each other at first."

Cassian went on, drawing my attention from the silent High Lord at my right, "We are bastards, you know. Az and I. The Illyrians … We love our people, and our traditions, but they dwell in clans and camps deep in the mountains of the North, and do not like outsiders. Especially High Fae who try to tell them what to do. But they're just as obsessed with lineage, and have their own princes and lords among them. Az," he said, pointing a thumb in his direction, his red Siphon catching the light, "was the bastard of one of the local lords. And if you think the bastard son of a lord is hated, then you can't imagine how hated the bastard is of a war-camp laundress and a warrior she couldn't or wouldn't remember." His casual shrug didn't match the vicious glint in his hazel eyes. "Az's father sent him to our camp for training once he and his charming wife realized he was a shadowsinger."

Shadowsinger. Yes—the title, whatever it meant, seemed to fit.

"Like the daemati," Rhys said to me, "shadowsingers are rare—coveted by courts and territories across the world for their stealth and predisposition to hear and feel things others can't."

Perhaps those shadows were indeed whispering to him, then. Azriel's cold face yielded nothing.

Cassian said, "The camp lord practically shit himself with excitement the day Az was dumped in our camp. But me … once my mother weaned me and I was able to walk, they flew me to a distant camp, and chucked me into the mud to see if I would live or die."

"They would have been smarter throwing you off a cliff," Mor said, snorting.

"Oh, definitely," Cassian said, that grin going razor-sharp. "Especially because when I was old and strong enough to go back to the camp I'd been born in, I learned those pricks worked my mother until she died."

Again that silence fell—different this time. The tension and simmering anger of a unit who had endured so much, survived so much … and felt each other's pain keenly.

"The Illyrians," Rhys smoothly cut in, that light finally returning to his gaze, "are unparalleled warriors, and are rich with stories and traditions. But they are also brutal and backward, particularly in regard to how they treat their females."

Azriel's eyes had gone near-vacant as he stared at the wall of windows behind me.

"They're barbarians," Amren said, and neither Illyrian male objected. Mor nodded emphatically, even as she noted Azriel's posture and bit her lip. "They cripple their females so they can keep them for breeding more flawless warriors."

Rhys cringed. "My mother was low-born," he told me, "and worked as a seamstress in one of their many mountain war-camps. When females come of age in the camps—when they have their first bleeding—their wings are … clipped. Just an incision in the right place, left to improperly heal, can cripple you forever. And my mother—she was gentle and wild and loved to fly. So she did everything in her power to keep herself from maturing. She starved herself, gathered illegal herbs—anything to halt the natural course of her body. She turned eighteen and hadn't yet bled, to the mortification of her parents. But her bleeding finally arrived, and all it took was for her to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time, before a male scented it on her and told the camp's lord. She tried to flee—took right to the skies. But she was young, and the warriors were faster, and they dragged her back. They were about to tie her to the posts in the center of camp when my father winnowed in for a meeting with the camp's lord about readying for the War. He saw my mother thrashing and fighting like a wildcat, and …" He swallowed. "The mating bond between them clicked into place. One look at her, and he knew what she was. He misted the guards holding her."

My brows narrowed. "Misted?"

Cassian let out a wicked chuckle as Rhys floated a lemon wedge that had been garnishing his chicken into the air above the table. With a flick of his finger, it turned to citrus-scented mist.

"Through the blood-rain," Rhys went on as I shut out the image of what it'd do to a body, what he could do, "my mother looked at him. And the bond fell into place for her. My father took her back to the Night Court that evening and made her his bride. She loved her people, and missed them, but never forgot what they had tried to do to her—what they did to the females among them. She tried for decades to get my father to ban it, but the War was coming, and he wouldn't risk isolating the Illyrians when he needed them to lead his armies. And to die for him."

"A real prize, your father," Mor grumbled.

"At least he liked you," Rhys countered, then clarified for me, "my father and mother, despite being mates, were wrong for each other. My father was cold and calculating, and could be vicious, as he had been trained to be since birth. My mother was soft and fiery and beloved by everyone she met. She hated him after a time—but never stopped being grateful that he had saved her wings, that he allowed her to fly whenever and wherever she wished. And when I was born, and could summon the Illyrian wings as I pleased … She wanted me to know her people's culture."

"She wanted to keep you out of your father's claws," Mor said, swirling her wine, her shoulders loosening as Azriel at last blinked, and seemed to shake off whatever memory had frozen him.

"That, too," Rhys added drily. "When I turned eight, my mother brought me to one of the Illyrian war-camps. To be trained, as all Illyrian males were trained. And like all Illyrian mothers, she shoved me toward the sparring ring on the first day, and walked away without looking back."

"What?" I said.

"She was staying at the camp as well. But it is considered an embarrassment for a mother to coddle her son when he goes to train."

My brows lifted and Cassian laughed. "Backward, like he said," the warrior told me.


	20. Chapter 20

2 meeting part 3:

"I was scared out of my mind," Rhys admitted, not a shade of shame to be found. "I'd been learning to wield my powers, but Illyrian magic was a mere fraction of it. And it's rare amongst them—usually possessed only by the most powerful, pure-bred warriors." Again, I looked at the slumbering Siphons atop the warriors' hands. "I tried to use a Siphon during those years," Rhys said. "And shattered about a dozen before I realized it wasn't compatible—the stones couldn't hold it. My power flows and is honed in other ways."

"So difficult, being such a powerful High Lord," Mor teased.

Rhys rolled his eyes. "The camp-lord banned me from using my magic. For all our sakes. But I had no idea how to fight when I set foot into that training ring that day. The other boys in my age group knew it, too. Especially one in particular, who took a look at me, and beat me into a bloody mess."

"You were so clean," Cassian said, shaking his head. "The pretty half-breed son of the High Lord—how fancy you were in your new training clothes."

"Cassian," Azriel told me with that voice like darkness given sound, "resorted to getting new clothes over the years by challenging other boys to fights, with the prize being the clothes off their backs." There was no pride in the words—not for his people's brutality. I didn't blame the shadowsinger, though. To treat anyone that way …

Cassian, however, chuckled. But I was now taking in the broad, strong shoulders, the light in his eyes.

I'd never met anyone else in Prythian who had ever been hungry, desperate—not like I'd been.

Cassian blinked, and the way he looked at me shifted—more assessing, more … sincere. I could have sworn I saw the words in his eyes: You know what it is like. You know the mark it leaves.

"I'd beaten every boy in our age group twice over already," Cassian went on. "But then Rhys arrived, in his clean clothes, and he smelled … different. Like a true opponent. So I attacked. We both got three lashings apiece for the fight."

I flinched. How nice.

"They do worse, girl," Amren cut in, "in those camps. Three lashings is practically an encouragement to fight again. When they do something truly bad, bones are broken. Repeatedly. Over weeks."Nice.

I said to Rhys, "Your mother willingly sent you into that?" To learn to fight.

"My mother didn't want me to rely on my power," Rhysand said. "She knew from the moment she conceived me that I'd be hunted my entire life. Where one strength failed, she wanted others to save me. Correct too.

"My education was another weapon—which was why she went with me: to tutor me after lessons were done for the day. And when she took me home that first night to our new house at the edge of the camp, she made me read by the window. It was there that I saw Cassian trudging through the mud—toward the few ramshackle tents outside of the camp. I asked her where he was going, and she told me that bastards are given nothing: they find their own shelter, own food. If they survive and get picked to be in a war-band, they'll be bottom-ranking forever, but receive their own tents and supplies. But until then, he'd stay in the cold."

"Those mountains," Azriel added, his face hard as ice, "offer some of the harshest conditions you can imagine."

I'd spent enough time in frozen woods to get it.

"After my lessons," Rhys went on, "my mother cleaned my lashings, and as she did, I realized for the first time what it was to be warm, and safe, and cared for. And it didn't sit well."

"Apparently not," Cassian said. "Because in the dead of night, that little prick woke me up in my piss-poor tent and told me to keep my mouth shut and come with him. And maybe the cold made me stupid, but I did. His mother was livid. But I'll never forget the look on her beautiful face when she saw me and said, 'There is a bathtub with hot running water. Get in it or you can go back into the cold.' Being a smart lad, I obeyed. When I got out, she had clean nightclothes and ordered me into bed. I'd spent my life sleeping on the ground—and when I balked, she said she understood because she had felt the same once, and that it would feel as if I was being swallowed up, but the bed was mine for as long as I wanted it."

"And you were friends after that?"

"No—Cauldron no," Rhysand said. "We hated each other, and only behaved because if one of us got into trouble or provoked the other, then neither of us ate that night. My mother started tutoring Cassian, but it wasn't until Azriel arrived a year later that we decided to be allies."

Cassian's grin grew as he reached around Amren to clap his friend on the shoulder. Azriel sighed—the sound of the long-suffering. The warmest expression I'd seen him make. "A new bastard in the camp—and an untrained shadowsinger to boot. Not to mention he couldn't even fly thanks to—"

Mor cut in lazily, "Stay on track, Cassian."

Indeed, any warmth had vanished from Azriel's face. But I quieted my own curiosity as Cassian again shrugged, not even bothering to take note of the silence that seemed to leak from the shadowsinger. Mor saw, though—even if Azriel didn't bother to acknowledge her concerned stare, the hand that she kept looking at as if she'd touch, but thought better of it.

Cassian went on, "Rhys and I made his life a living hell, shadowsinger or no. But Rhys's mother had known Az's mother, and took him in. As we grew older, and the other males around us did, too, we realized everyone else hated us enough that we had better odds of survival sticking together."

"Do you have any gifts?" I asked him. "Like—them?" I jerked my chin to Azriel and Rhys.

"A volatile temper doesn't count," Mor said as Cassian opened his mouth.

He gave her that grin I realized likely meant trouble was coming, but said to me, "No. I don't—not beyond a heaping pile of the killing power. Bastard-born nobody, through and through." Rhys sat forward like he'd object, but Cassian forged ahead, "Even so, the other males knew that we were different. And not because we were two bastards and a half-breed. We were stronger, faster—like the Cauldron knew we'd been set apart and wanted us to find each other. Rhys's mother saw it, too. Especially as we reached the age of maturity, and all we wanted to do was fuck and fight."

"Males are horrible creatures, aren't they?" Amren said.

"Repulsive," Mor said, clicking her tongue.

I smiled at that.

Cassian shrugged. "Rhys's power grew every day—and everyone, even the camp-lords, knew he could mist everyone if he felt like it. And the two of us … we weren't far behind." He tapped his crimson Siphon with a finger. "A bastard Illyrian had never received one of these. Ever. For Az and me to both be appointed them, albeit begrudgingly, had every warrior in every camp across those mountains sizing us up. Only pure-blood pricks get Siphons—born and bred for the killing power. It still keeps them up at night, puzzling over where the hell we got it from."

"Then the War came," Azriel took over. Just the way he said the words made me sit up. Listen. "And Rhys's father visited our camp to see how his son had fared after twenty years."

"My father," Rhys said, swirling his wine once—twice, "saw that his son had not only started to rival him for power, but had allied himself with perhaps the two deadliest Illyrians in history. He got it into his head that if we were given a legion in the War, we might very well turn it against him when we returned."

Cassian snickered. "So the prick separated us. He gave Rhys command of a legion of Illyrians who hated him for being a half-breed, and threw me into a different legion to be a common foot soldier, even when my power outranked any of the war-leaders. Az, he kept for himself as his personal shadowsinger—mostly for spying and his dirty work. We only saw each other on battlefields for the seven years the War raged. They'd send around casualty lists amongst the Illyrians, and I read each one, wondering if I'd see their names on it. But then Rhys was captured—"Amarantha...Miryam...

"That is a story for another time," Rhys said, sharply enough that Cassian lifted his brows, but nodded. Rhys's violet eyes met mine, and I wondered if it was true starlight that flickered so intensely in them as he spoke. "Once I became High Lord, I appointed these four to my Inner Circle, and told the rest of my father's old court that if they had a problem with my friends, they could leave. They all did. Turns out, having a half-breed High Lord was made worse by his appointment of two females and two Illyrian bastards."

As bad as humans, in some ways. "What—what happened to them, then?"

Rhys shrugged, those great wings shifting with the movement. "The nobility of the Night Court fall into one of three categories: those who hated me enough that when Amarantha took over, they joined her court and later found themselves dead; those who hated me enough to try to overthrow me and faced the consequences; and those who hated me, but not enough to be stupid and have since tolerated a half-breed's rule, especially when it so rarely interferes with their miserable lives."

"Are they—are they the ones who live beneath the mountain?"

A nod. "In the Hewn City, yes. I gave it to them, for not being fools. They're happy to stay there, rarely leaving, ruling themselves and being as wicked as they please, for all eternity."

That was the court he must have shown Amarantha when she first arrived—and its wickedness must have pleased her enough that she modeled her own after it.

"The Court of Nightmares," Mor said, sucking on a tooth.

"And what is this court?" I asked, gesturing to them. The most important question.

It was Cassian, eyes clear and bright as his Siphon, who said, "The Court of Dreams."

The Court of Dreams—the dreams of a half-breed High Lord, two bastard warriors, and … the two females. "And you?" I said to Mor and Amren.

Amren merely said, "Rhys offered to make me his Second. No one had ever asked me before, so I said yes, to see what it might be like. I found I enjoyed it."

Mor leaned back in her seat, Azriel now watching every movement she made with subtle, relentless focus.

"I was a dreamer born into the Court of Nightmares," Mor said. She twirled a curl around a finger, and I wondered if her story might be the worst of all of them as she said simply, "So I got out."

"What's your story, then?" Cassian said to me with a jerk of his chin.

I'd assumed Rhysand had told them everything. Rhys merely shrugged at me.

So I straightened. "I was born to a wealthy merchant family, with two older sisters and parents who only cared about their money and social standing. My mother died when I was eight; my father lost his fortune three years later. He sold everything to pay off his debts, moved us into a hovel, and didn't bother to find work while he let us slowly starve for years. I was fourteen when the last of the money ran out, along with the food. He wouldn't work—couldn't, because the debtors came and shattered his leg in front of us. So I went into the forest and taught myself to hunt. And I kept us all alive, if not near starving for five years, until everything happened.

But Cassian said, "You taught yourself to hunt. What about to fight?" I shook my head. Cassian braced his arms on the table. "Lucky for you, you've just found yourself a teacher."

I had never had a female friend before. Ianthe … she had not been one. Not in the way that mattered, I realized. And Nesta and Elain, in those few weeks I'd been at home before Amarantha, had started to fill that role, but … but looking at Mor, I couldn't explain it, couldn't understand it, but … I felt it. Like I could indeed go to dinner with her. Talk to her.

Not that I had much of anything to offer her in return.

Yes, Rhys had been wise to bring me here. To let me decide if I could handle them—the teasing and intensity and power. If I wanted to be a part of a group who would likely push me, and overwhelm me, and maybe frighten me, but … If they were willing to stand against Hybern, after already fighting them five hundred years ago …

I met Cassian's gaze. And though his eyes danced, there was nothing amused in them. "I'll think about it."

Through the bond in my hand/mating bond, I felt a glimmer of pleased surprise. I checked my mental shields—but they were intact. And Rhysand's calm face revealed no hint of its origin.

So I said clearly, steadily to him, "I accept your offer—to work with you. To earn my keep. And help with Hybern in whatever way I can."

"Good," Rhys merely replied. Even as the others raised their brows. Yes, they'd obviously not been told this was an interview of sorts. "Because we start tomorrow."

"Where? And what?" I sputtered.

Rhys interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table, and I realized there was another point to this dinner beyond my decision as he announced to all of us, "Because the King of Hybern is indeed about to launch a war, and he wants to resurrect Jurian to do it."

Jurian—the ancient warrior whose soul Amarantha had imprisoned within that hideous ring as punishment for killing her sister. The ring that contained his eye …

"Bullshit," Cassian spat. "There's no way to do that."

Amren had gone still, and it was she whom Azriel was observing, marking.

Amarantha was just the beginning, Rhys had once told me. Had he known this even then? Had those months Under the Mountain merely been a prelude to whatever hell was about to be unleashed? Resurrecting the dead. What sort of unholy power—

Mor groaned, "Why would the king want to resurrect Jurian? He was so odious. All he liked to do was talk about himself."

The age of these people hit me like a brick, despite all they'd told me minutes earlier. The War—they had all … they had all fought in the War five hundred years ago.

"That's what I want to find out," Rhysand said. "And how the king plans to do it."

Amren at last said, "Word will have reached him about Feyre's Making. He knows it's possible for the dead to be remade."

I shifted in my seat. I'd expected brute armies, pure bloodshed. But this—

"All seven High Lords would have to agree to that," Mor countered. "There's not a chance it happens. He'll take another route." Her eyes narrowed to slits as she faced Rhys. "All the slaughtering—the massacres at temples. You think it's tied to this?"，Yes.

"I know it's tied to this. I didn't want to tell you until I knew for certain. But Azriel confirmed that they'd raided the memorial in Sangravah three days ago. They're looking for something—or found it." Azriel nodded in confirmation, even as Mor cast a surprised look in his direction. Azriel gave her an apologetic shrug back.

I breathed, "That—that's why the ring and the finger bone vanished after Amarantha died. For this. But who …" My mouth went dry. "They never caught the Attor, did they?"

Rhys said too quietly, "No. No, they didn't." The food in my stomach turned leaden. He said to Amren, "How does one take an eye and a finger bone and make it into a man again? And how do we stop it?"

Amren frowned at her untouched wine. "You already know how to find the answer. Go to the Prison. Talk to the Bone Carver."

"Shit," Mor and Cassian both said.

Rhys said calmly, "Perhaps you would be more effective, Amren."

I was grateful for the table separating us as Amren hissed, "I will not set foot in the Prison, Rhysand, and you know it. So go yourself, or send one of these dogs to do it for you."

Cassian grinned, showing his white, straight teeth—perfect for biting. Amren snapped hers once in return.

Azriel just shook his head. "I'll go. The Prison sentries know me—what I am."

I wondered if the shadowsinger was usually the first to throw himself into danger. Mor's fingers stilled on the stem of her wineglass, her eyes narrowing on Amren. The jewels, the red gown—all perhaps a way to downplay whatever dark power roiled in her veins—

"If anyone's going to the Prison," Rhys said before Mor opened her mouth, "it's me. And Feyre."Lovely matey practical all the same.

"What?" Mor demanded, palms now flat on the table.

"He won't talk to Rhys," Amren said to the others, "or to Azriel. Or to any of us. We've got nothing to offer him. But an immortal with a mortal soul …" She stared at my chest as if she could see the heart pounding beneath … "The Bone Carver might be willing indeed to talk to her."

They stared at me. As if waiting for me to beg not to go, to curl up and cower. Their quick, brutal interview to see if they wanted to work with me, I supposed.

But the Bone Carver, the naga, the Attor, the Suriel, the Bogge, the Middengard Wyrm … Maybe they'd broken whatever part of me truly feared. Or maybe fear was only something I now felt in my dreams.

"Your choice, Feyre," Rhys said if it wan't a big choice in all their eyes.

To shirk and mourn or face some unknown horror—the choice was easy. "How bad can it be?" was my response.

"Bad," Cassian said. None of them bothered to contradict him.

CHAPTER

17

Jurian.

The name clanged through me, even after we finished dinner, even after Mor and Cassian and Azriel and Amren had stopped debating and snarling about who would do what and be where while Rhys and I went to the Prison—whatever that was—tomorrow.

Rhys flew me back over the city, plunging into the lights and darkness. I quickly found I much preferred ascending, and couldn't bring myself to watch for too long without feeling my dinner rise up. Not fear—just some reaction of my body.

We flew in silence, the whistling winter wind the only sound, despite his cocoon of warmth blocking it from freezing me entirely. Only when the music of the streets welcomed us did I peer into his face, his features unreadable as he focused on flying. "Tonight—I felt you again. Through the bond. Did I get past your shields?"I almost said mating bond.. Oh dear.

"No," he said, scanning the cobblestone streets below. "This bond is … a living thing. An open channel between us, shaped by my powers, shaped … by what you needed when we made the bargain."

"I needed not to be dead when I agreed."

"You needed not to be alone."

Our eyes met. It was too dark to read whatever was in his gaze. I was the one who looked away first.

"I'm still learning how and why we can sometimes feel things the other doesn't want known," he admitted. "So I don't have an explanation for what you felt tonight."

You needed not to be alone… .

But what about him? Fifty years he'd been separated from his friends, his family …

I said, "You let Amarantha and the entire world think you rule and delight in a Court of Nightmares. It's all a front—to keep what matters most safe."

The city lights gilded his face. "I love my people, and my family. Do not think I wouldn't become a monster to keep them protected."

"You already did that Under the Mountain." The words were out before I could stop them.

The wind rustled his hair. "And I suspect I'll have to do it again soon enough."

"What was the cost?" I dared ask. "Of keeping this place secret and free?"

He shot straight down, wings beating to keep us smooth as we landed on the roof of the town house. I made to step away, but he gripped my chin. "You know the cost already."

Amarantha's whore.

He nodded, and I think I might have said the two vile words the bond.

"When she tricked me out of my powers and left the scraps, it was still more than the others. And I decided to use it to tap into the mind of every Night Court citizen she captured, and anyone who might know the truth. I made a web between all of them, actively controlling their minds every second of every day, every decade, to forget about Velaris, to forget about Mor, and Amren, and Cassian, and Azriel. Amarantha wanted to know who was close to me—who to kill and torture. But my true court was here, ruling this city and the others. And I used the remainder of my power to shield them all from sight and sound. I had only enough for one city—one place. I chose the one that had been hidden from history already. I chose, and now must live with the consequences of knowing there were more left outside who suffered. But for those here … anyone flying or traveling near Velaris would see nothing but barren rock, and if they tried to walk through it, they'd find themselves suddenly deciding otherwise. Sea travel and merchant trading were halted—sailors became farmers, working the earth around Velaris instead. And because my powers were focused on shielding them all, Feyre, I had very little to use against Amarantha. So I decided that to keep her from asking questions about the people who mattered, I would be her whore."

He'd done all of that, had done such horrible things … done everything for his people, his friends. And the only piece of himself that he'd hidden and managed to keep her from tainting, destroying, even if it meant fifty years trapped in a cage of rock …

Those wings now flared wide. How many knew about those wings outside of Velaris or the Illyrian war-camps? Or had he wiped all memory of them from Prythian long before Amarantha?

Rhys released my chin. But as he lowered his hand, I gripped his wrist, feeling the solid strength. "It's a shame," I said, the words nearly gobbled up by the sound of the city music. "That others in Prythian don't know. A shame that you let them think the worst."

He took a step back, his wings beating the air like mighty drums. "As long as the people who matter most know the truth, I don't care about the rest. Get some sleep."

Then he shot into the sky, and was swallowed by the darkness between the stars.

I tumbled into a sleep so heavy my dreams were an undertow that dragged me down, down, down until I couldn't escape them.

I lay naked and prone on a familiar red marble floor while Amarantha slid a knife along my bare ribs, the steel scraping softly against my skin. "Lying, traitorous human," she purred, "with your filthy, lying heart."

The knife scratched, a cool caress. I struggled to get up, but my body wouldn't work.

She pressed a kiss to the hollow of my throat. "You're as much a monster as me." She curved the knife over my breast, angling it toward my peaked nipple, as if she could see the heart beating beneath. I started sobbing. "Don't waste your tears."

Someone far away was roaring my name; begging for ...

"I'm going to make eternity a hell for you," she promised, the tip of the dagger piercing the sensitive flesh beneath my breast, her lips hovering a breath above mine as she pushed—

Hands—there were hands on my shoulders, shaking me, squeezing me. I thrashed against them, screaming, screaming—All an act... To do what I didn't I was bored.

"FEYRE."

The voice was at once the night and the dawn and the stars and the earth, and every inch of my body calmed at the primal dominance in .

"Open your eyes," the voice ordered.

I did.

My throat was raw, my mouth full of ash, my face soaked and sticky, and Rhysand—Rhysand was hovering above me, his eyes wide.

"It was a dream," he said, his breathing as hard as mine.

The moonlight trickling through the windows illuminated the dark lines of swirling tattoos down his arm, his shoulders, across his sculpted chest. Like the ones I bore on my arm. He scanned my face. "A dream," he said again.

Velaris. I was in Velaris, at his house. And I had—my dream—

The sheets, the blankets were ripped. Shredded. But not with a knife. And that ashy, smoky taste coating my mouth …

My hand was unnervingly steady as I lifted it to find my fingers ending in simmering embers. Living claws of flame that had sliced through my bed linens like they were cauterizing wounds—

I shoved him off with a hard shoulder, falling out of bed and slamming into a small chest before I hurtled into the bathing room, fell to my knees before the toilet, and was sick to my stomach. Again. Again. My fingertips hissed against the cool porcelain.

Large, warm hands pulled my hair back a moment later. Rhys. So caring and .. STOPPING THOUGHTS NOW.

"Breathe," Rhys said. "Imagine them winking out like candles, one by one."

I heaved into the toilet again, shuddering as light and heat crested and rushed out of me, and savored the empty, cool dark that pooled in their wake.

"Well, that's one way to do it," he said.

When I dared to look at my hands, braced on the bowl, the embers had been extinguished. Even that power in my veins, along my bones, slumbered once more.

"I have this dream," Rhys said as I retched again, holding my hair. "Where it's not me stuck under her, but Cassian or Azriel. And she's pinned their wings to the bed with spikes, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. She's commanded me to watch, and I have no choice but to see how I failed them."

I clung to the toilet, spitting once, and reached up to flush. I watched the water swirl away entirely before I twisted my head to look at him.

His fingers were gentle, but firm where he'd fisted them in my hair. "You never failed them," I rasped.

"I did … horrible things to ensure that." Those violet eyes near-glowed in the dim light.

"So did I." My sweat clung like blood—the blood of those two faeries—

I pivoted, barely turning in time. His other hand stroked long, soothing lines down the curve of my back, as over and over I yielded my dinner. When the latest wave had ebbed, I breathed, "The flames?"

"Autumn Court."

I couldn't muster a response. At some point, I leaned against the coolness of the nearby bathtub and closed my eyes.

When I awoke, sun streamed through the windows, and I was in my bed—tucked in tightly to the fresh, clean wonderful wonderful mate had cared for me and... shut up now, do NOT think like that yet.

I stared up at the sharp grassy slope of the small mountain, shivering at the veils of mist that wafted past. Behind us, the land swept away to brutal cliffs and a violent pewter sea. Ahead, nothing but a wide, flat-topped mountain of gray stone and moss.

Rhys stood at my side, a double-edged sword sheathed down his spine, knives strapped to his legs, clothed in what I could only assume were Illyrian fighting leathers, based on what Cassian and Azriel had worn the night before. The dark pants were tight, the scale-like plates of leather worn and scarred, and sculpted to legs I hadn't noticed were quite that muscled. His close-fitting jacket had been built around the wings that were now fully out, bits of dark, scratched armor added at the shoulders and forearms.

If his attire hadn't told me enough about what we might be facing today—if my own, similar attire hadn't told me enough—all I needed was to take one look at the rock before us and know it wouldn't be pleasant. I'd been so distracted in the study an hour ago by what Rhys had been writing as he drafted a careful request to visit the Summer Court that I hadn't thought to ask what to expect here. Not that Rhys had really bothered explaining why he wanted to visit the Summer Court beyond "improving diplomatic relations."And stealing the book.

"Where are we?" I said, our first words since winnowing in a moment ago. Velaris had been brisk, sunny. This place, wherever it was, was freezing, deserted, barren. Only rock and grass and mist and sea.

"On an island in the heart of the Western Isles," Rhysand said, staring up at the mammoth mountain. "And that," he said, pointing to it, "is the Prison."

There was nothing—no one around.

"I don't see anything."

"The rock is the Prison. And inside it are the foulest, most dangerous creatures and criminals you can imagine."

Go inside—inside the stone, under another mountain—

"This place," he said, "was made before High Lords existed. Before Prythian was Prythian. Some of the inmates remember those days. Remember a time when it was Mor's family, not mine, that ruled the North."

"Why won't Amren go in here?"

"Because she was once a prisoner."

"Not in that body, I take it."

A cruel smile. "No. Not at all."

I shivered.

"The hike will get your blood warming," Rhys said. "Since we can't winnow inside or fly to the entrance—the wards demand that visitors walk in. The long way."

I willed steel to my heart and strode confidently towards the prison.

We climbed until the upper face of the mountain became a wall before us, nothing but grassy slopes sweeping behind, far below, to where they flowed to the restless gray sea. Rhys drew the sword from his back in a swift movement.

"Don't look so surprised," he said.

"I've—never seen you with a weapon." Aside from the dagger he'd grabbed to slit Amarantha's throat at the end—to spare me from agony.

"Cassian would laugh himself hoarse hearing that. And then make me go into the sparring ring with him."

"Can he beat you?"

"Hand-to-hand combat? Yes. He'd have to earn it for a change, but he'd win." No arrogance, no pride. "Cassian is the best warrior I've encountered in any court, any land. He leads my armies because of it."

I didn't doubt his claim. And the other Illyrian … "Azriel—his hands. The scars, I mean," I said. "Where did they come from?"

Rhys was quiet a moment. Then he said too softly, "His father had two legitimate sons, both older than Azriel. Both cruel and spoiled. They learned it from their mother, the lord's wife. For the eleven years that Azriel lived in his father's keep, she saw to it he was kept in a cell with no window, no light. They let him out for an hour every day—let him see his mother for an hour once a week. He wasn't permitted to train, or fly, or any of the things his Illyrian instincts roared at him to do. When he was eight, his brothers decided it'd be fun to see what happened when you mixed an Illyrian's quick healing gifts with oil—and fire. The warriors heard Azriel's screaming. But not quick enough to save his hands."

Nausea swamped me. But that still left him with three more years living with them. What other horrors had he endured before he was sent to that mountain-camp? "Were—were his brothers punished?"

Rhys's face was as unfeeling as the rock and wind and sea around us as he said with lethal quiet, "Eventually."

There was enough rawness in the words that I instead asked, "And Mor—what does she do for you?"

"Mor is who I'll call in when the armies fail and Cassian and Azriel are both dead."

My blood chilled. "So she's supposed to wait until then?"

"No. As my Third, Mor is my … court overseer. She looks after the dynamics between the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams, and runs both Velaris and the Hewn City. I suppose in the mortal realm, she might be considered a queen."

"And Amren?"

"Her duties as my Second make her my political adviser, walking library, and doer of my dirty work. I appointed her upon gaining my throne. But she was my ally, maybe my friend, long before that."

"I mean—in that imaginary war where your armies fail and Cassian and Azriel are dead, and even Mor is gone." Each word was like ice on my tongue that would never happen. Hopefully.

Rhys paused his reach for the bald rock face before us. "If that day comes, I'll find a way to break the spell on Amren and unleash her on the world. And ask her to end me first."

By the Mother. "What is she?" After our chat this morning, perhaps it was stupid to ask.

"Something else. Something worse than us. And if she ever finds a way to shed her prison of flesh and bone … Cauldron save us all."

I shivered again and stared up at the sheer stone wall. "I can't climb bare rock like that."

"You don't need to," Rhys said, laying a hand flat on the stone. Like a mirage, it vanished in a ripple of light.

Pale, carved gates stood in its place, so high their tops were lost to the mist.

Gates of bone.

The bone-gates swung open silently, revealing a cavern of black so inky I had never seen its like, even Under the Mountain.

Rhys put a warm hand on my back and guided me inside, three balls of moonlight bobbing before us.

"Breathe," he said in my ear. "One breath."

"Where are the guards?" I managed to get out past the tightness in my lungs.

"They dwell within the rock of the mountain," he murmured, his hand finding mine and wrapping around it as he tugged me into the immortal gloom. "They only emerge at feeding time, or to deal with restless prisoners. They are nothing but shadows of thought and an ancient spell."

With the small lights floating ahead, I tried not to look too long at the gray walls. Especially when they were so rough-hewn that the jagged bits could have been a nose, or a craggy brow, or a set of sneering lips.

The dry ground was clear of anything but pebbles. And there was silence. Utter silence as we rounded a bend, and the last of the light from the misty world faded into inky black.

The path plunged deep into the belly of the mountain, and I clutched Rhys's fingers to keep from losing my footing. He still had his sword gripped in his other hand.

"Do all the High Lords have access?" My words were so soft they were devoured by the dark. Even that thrumming power in my veins had vanished, burrowing somewhere in my bones.

"No. The Prison is law unto itself; the island may be even an eighth court. But it falls under my jurisdiction, and my blood is keyed to the gates."

"Could you free the inmates?"

"No. Once the sentence is given and a prisoner passes those gates … They belong to the Prison. It will never let them out. I take sentencing people here very, very seriously."

"Have you ever—"

"Yes. And now is not the time to speak of it." He squeezed my hand in emphasis.I wanted to know what that meant.. probably told in the 4th/5th/6th nooks.

We wound down through the gloom.

There were no doors. No lights.

No sounds. Not even a trickle of water.

But I could feel them.

I could feel them sleeping, pacing, running hands and claws over the other side of the walls.

They were ancient, and cruel in a way I had never known, not even with Amarantha. They were infinite, and patient, and had learned the language of darkness, of stone.

"How long," I breathed. "How long was she in here?" I didn't dare say her name.

"Azriel looked once. Into archives in our oldest temples and libraries. All he found was a vague mention that she went in before Prythian was split into the courts—and emerged once they had been established. Her imprisonment predates our written word. I don't know how long she was in here—a few millennia seems like a fair guess."

Horror roiled in my gut. "You never asked?"

"Why bother? She'll tell me when it's necessary."

"Where did she come from?" The brooch he'd given her—such a small gift, for a monster who had once dwelled here.

"I don't know. Though there are legends that claim when the world was born, there were … rips in the fabric of the realms. That in the chaos of Forming, creatures from other worlds could walk through one of those rips and enter another world. But the rips closed at will, and the creatures could become trapped, with no way home."

It was more horrifying than I could fathom—both that monsters had walked between worlds, and the terror of being trapped in another realm. "You think she was one of them?"

"I think that she is the only one of her kind, and there is no record of others ever having existed. Even the Suriel have numbers, however small. But she—and some of those in the Prison … I think they came from somewhere else. And they have been looking for a way home for a long, long time."

I was shivering beneath the fur-lined leather, my breath clouding in front of me.

Down and down we went, and time lost its grip. It could have been hours or days, and we paused only when my useless, wasted body demanded water. Even while I drank, he didn't let go of my hand. As if the rock would swallow me up forever. I made sure those breaks were swift and rare.

And still we went onward, deeper. Only the lights and his hand kept me from feeling as if I were about to free-fall into darkness. For a heartbeat, the reek of my own dungeon cell cloyed in my nose, and the crunch of moldy hay tickled my cheek—

Rhys's hand tightened on my own. "Just a bit farther."

"We must be near the bottom by now."

"Past it. The Bone Carver is caged beneath the roots of the mountain."

"Who is he? What is he?" I'd only been briefed in what I was to say—nothing of what to expect. No doubt to keep me from panicking too thoroughly.

"No one knows. He'll appear as he wants to appear."

"Shape-shifter?"

"Yes and no. He'll appear to you as one thing, and I might be standing right beside you and see another."

"And the bone carving?"

"You'll see." Rhys stopped before a smooth slab of stone. The hall continued down—down into the ageless dark. The air here was tight, compact. Even my puffs of breath on the chill air seemed short-lived.

Rhysand at last released my hand, only to lay his once more on the bare stone. It rippled beneath his palm, forming—a door.

Like the gates above, it was of ivory—bone. And in its surface were etched countless images: flora and fauna, seas and clouds, stars and moons, infants and skeletons, creatures fair and foul—

It swung away. The cell was pitch-black, hardly distinguishable from the hall—

"I have carved the doors for every prisoner in this place," said a small voice within, "but my own remains my favorite."

"I'd have to agree," Rhysand said. He stepped inside, the light bobbing ahead to illuminate a dark-haired boy sitting against the far wall, eyes of crushing blue taking in Rhysand, then sliding to where I lurked in the future son..

Rhys reached into a bag I hadn't realized he'd been carrying—no, one he'd summoned from whatever pocket between realms he used for storage. He chucked an object toward the boy, who looked no more than eight. White gleamed as it clacked on the rough stone floor. Another bone, long and sturdy—and jagged on one end.

"The calf-bone that made the final kill when Feyre slew the Middengard Wyrm," Rhys said.

My very blood stilled. There had been many bones that I'd laid in my trap—I hadn't noticed which had ended the Wyrm. Or thought anyone would.

"Come inside," was all the Bone Carver said, and there was no innocence, no kindness in that child's voice.

I took one step in and no more.

"It has been an age," the boy said, gobbling down the sight of me, "since something new came into this world."

"Hello," I breathed.

The boy's smile was a mockery of innocence. "Are you frightened?"

"Yes," I said. Never lie—that had been Rhys's first command.

The boy stood, but kept to the other side of the cell. "Feyre," he murmured, cocking his head. The orb of faelight glazed the inky hair in silver. "Fay-ruh," he said again, drawing out the syllables as if he could taste them. At last, he straightened his head. "Where did you go when you died?"

"A question for a question," I replied, as I'd been instructed over breakfast.

The Bone Carver inclined his head to Rhysand. "You were always smarter than your forefathers." But those eyes alighted on me. "Tell me where you went, what you saw—and I will answer your question."

Rhys gave me a subtle nod, but his eyes were wary. Because what the boy had asked …

I had to calm my breathing to think—to remember.

But there was blood and death and pain and screaming—and she was breaking me, killing me so slowly, and Rhys was there, roaring in fury as I died, Tamlin begging for my life on his knees before her throne … But there was so much agony, and I wanted it to be over, wanted it all to stop—

Rhys had gone rigid while he monitored the Bone Carver, as if those memories were freely flowing past the mental shields I'd made sure were intact this morning. And I wondered if he thought I'd give up then and there.

I bunched my hands into fists.

I had lived; I had gotten out. I would get out today.

"I heard the crack," I said. Rhys's head whipped toward me. "I heard the crack when she broke my neck. It was in my ears, but also inside my skull. I was gone before I felt anything more than the first lash of pain."

The Bone Carver's violet eyes seemed to glow brighter.

"And then it was dark. A different sort of dark than this place. But there was a … thread," I said. "A tether. And I yanked on it—and suddenly I could see. Not through my eyes, but—but his," I said, inclining my head toward Rhys. I uncurled the fingers of my tattooed hand. "And I knew I was dead, and this tiny scrap of spirit was all that was left of me, clinging to the thread of our bargain."Mating bond...

"But was there anyone there—were you seeing anything beyond?"

"There was only that bond in the darkness."

Rhysand's face had gone pale, his mouth a tight line. "And when I was Made anew," I said, "I followed that bond back—to me. I knew that home was on the other end of it. There was light then. Like swimming up through sparkling wine—"

"Were you afraid?"

"All I wanted was to return to—to the people around me. I wanted it badly enough I didn't have room for fear. The worst had happened, and the darkness was calm and quiet. It did not seem like a bad thing to fade into. But I wanted to go home. So I followed the bond home."

"There was no other world," the Bone Carver pushed.

"If there was or is, I did not see it."

"No light, no portal?"

Where is it that you want to go? The question almost leaped off my tongue. "It was only peace and darkness."

"Did you have a body?"

"No."

"Did—"

"That's enough from you," Rhysand purred—the sound like velvet over sharpest steel. "You said a question for a question. Now you've asked … " He did a tally on his fingers. "Six."

The Bone Carver leaned back against the wall and slid to a sitting position. "It is a rare day when I meet someone who comes back from true death. Forgive me for wanting to peer behind the curtain." He waved a delicate hand in my direction. "Ask it, girl."

"If there was no body—nothing but perhaps a bit of bone," I said as solidly as I could, "would there be a way to resurrect that person? To grow them a new body, put their soul into it."

Those eyes flashed. "Was the soul somehow preserved? Contained?"

I tried not to think about the eye ring Amarantha had worn, the soul she'd trapped inside to witness her every horror and depravity. "Yes."

"There is no way."

I almost sighed in relief.

"Unless … " The boy bounced each finger off his thumb, his hand like some pale, twitchy insect. "Long ago, before the High Fae, before man, there was a Cauldron … They say all the magic was contained inside it, that the world was born in it. But it fell into the wrong hands. And great and horrible things were done with it. Things were forged with it. Such wicked things that the Cauldron was eventually stolen back at great cost. It could not be destroyed, for it had Made all things, and if it were broken, then life would cease to be. So it was hidden. And forgotten. Only with that Cauldron could something that is dead be reforged like that."

Rhysand's face was again a mask of calm. "Where did they hide it?"

"Tell me a secret no one knows, Lord of Night, and I'll tell you mine."

I braced myself for whatever horrible truth was about to come my way. But Rhysand said, "My right knee gets a twinge of pain when it rains. I wrecked it during the War, and it's hurt ever since."

The Bone Carver bit out a harsh laugh, even as I gaped at Rhys. "You always were my favorite," he said, giving a smile I would never for a moment think was childlike. "Very well. The Cauldron was hidden at the bottom of a frozen lake in Lapplund—" Rhys began to turn for me, as if he'd head there right now, but the Bone Carver added, "And vanished a long, long time ago." Rhys halted. "I don't know where it went to—or where it is now. Millennia before you were born, the three feet on which it stands were successfully cleaved from its base in an attempt to fracture some of its power. It worked—barely. Removing the feet was like cutting off the first knuckle of a finger. Irksome, but you could still use the rest with some difficulty. The feet were hidden at three different temples—Cesere, Sangravah, and Itica. If they have gone missing, it is likely the Cauldron is active once more—and that the wielder wants it at full power and not a wisp of it missing."

That was why the temples had been ransacked. To get the feet on which the Cauldron stood and restore it to its full power. Rhys merely said, "I don't suppose you know who now has the Cauldron."

The Bone Carver pointed a small finger at me. "Promise that you'll give me her bones when she dies and I'll think about it." I stiffened, but the boy laughed. "No—I don't think even you would promise that, Rhysand."

I might have called the look on Rhys's face a warning. "Thank you for your help," he said, placing a hand on my back to guide me out.

But if he knew … I turned again to the boy-creature. "There was a choice—in Death," I said.

Those eyes guttered with cobalt fire.

Rhys's hand contracted on my back, but remained. Warm, steady. And I wondered if the touch was more to reassure him that I was there, still breathing.

"I knew," I went on, "that I could drift away into the dark. And I chose to fight—to hold on for a bit longer. Yet I knew if I wanted, I could have faded. And maybe it would be a new world, a realm of rest and peace. But I wasn't ready for it—not to go there alone. I knew there was something else waiting beyond that dark. Something good."

For a moment, those blue eyes flared brighter. Then the boy said, "You know who has the Cauldron, Rhysand. Who has been pillaging the temples. You only came here to confirm what you have long guessed."

"The King of Hybern."

Dread sluiced through my veins and pooled in my stomach. I shouldn't have been surprised, should have known, but …

The carver said nothing more. Waiting for another truth.

So I offered up another shattered piece of me. "When Amarantha made me kill those two faeries, if the third hadn't been Tamlin, I would have put the dagger in my own heart at the end."

Rhys went still.

"I knew there was no coming back from what I'd done," I said, wondering if the blue flame in the carver's eyes might burn my ruined soul to ash. "And once I broke their curse, once I knew I'd saved them, I just wanted enough time to turn that dagger on myself. I only decided I wanted to live when she killed me, and I knew I had not finished whatever … whatever it was I'd been born to do."

I dared a glance at Rhys, and there was something like devastation on his beautiful face. It was gone in a blink.I knew what was running through his head, to come close to losing his mate...

Even the Bone Carver said gently, "With the Cauldron, you could do other things than raise the dead. You could shatter the wall."

The only thing keeping human lands—my family—safe from not just Hybern, but any other faeries.

"It is likely that Hybern has been quiet for so many years because he was hunting the Cauldron, learning its secrets. Resurrection of a specific individual might very well have been his first test once the feet were reunited—and now he finds that the Cauldron is pure energy, pure power. And like any magic, it can be depleted. So he will let it rest, let it gather strength—learn its secrets to feed it more energy, more power."

"Is there a way to stop it," I breathed.

Silence. Expectant, waiting silence.

Rhys's voice was hoarse as he said, "Don't offer him one more—"

"When the Cauldron was made," the carver interrupted, "its dark maker used the last of the molten ore to forge a book. The Book of Breathings. In it, written between the carved words, are the spells to negate the Cauldron's power—or control it wholly. But after the War, it was split into two pieces. One went to the Fae, one to the six human queens. It was part of the Treaty, purely symbolic, as the Cauldron had been lost for millennia and considered mere myth. The Book was believed harmless, because like calls to like—and only that which was Made can speak those spells and summon its power. No creature born of the earth may wield it, so the High Lords and humans dismissed it as little more than a historical heirloom, but if the Book were in the hands of something reforged … You would have to test such a theory, of course—but … it might be possible." His eyes narrowed to amused slits as I realized … realized …

"So now the High Lord of Summer possesses our piece, and the reigning mortal queens have the other entombed in their shining palace by the sea. Prythian's half is guarded, protected with blood-spells keyed to Summer himself. The one belonging to the mortal queens … They were crafty, when they received their gift. They used our own kind to spell the Book, to bind it—so that if it were ever stolen, if, let's say, a High Lord were to winnow into their castle to steal it … the Book would melt into ore and be lost. It must be freely given by a mortal queen, with no trickery, no magic involved." A little laugh. "Such clever, lovely creatures, humans."

The carver seemed lost in ancient memory—then shook his head. "Reunite both halves of the Book of Breathings and you will be able to nullify the powers of the Cauldron. Hopefully before it returns to full strength and shatters that wall."

I didn't bother saying thank you. Not with the information he'd told us. Not when I'd been forced to say those things—and could still feel Rhys's lingering attention. As if he'd suspected, but never believed just how badly I'd broken in that moment with Amarantha.

We turned away, his hand sliding from my back to grip my hand.

The touch was light—gentle. And I gripped it comfort and reassure.

The carver picked up the bone Rhysand had brought him and weighed it in those child's hands. "I shall carve your death in here, Feyre."

Up and up into the darkness we walked, through the sleeping stone and the monsters who dwelled within it. At last I said to Rhys, "What did you see?"

"You first."

"A boy—around eight; dark-haired and blue-eyed."

Rhys shuddered—the most human gesture I'd seen him make.

"What did you see?" I pushed.

"Jurian," Rhys said. "He appeared exactly as Jurian looked the last time I saw him: facing Amarantha when they fought to the death."

I didn't want to learn how the Bone Carver knew who we'd come to ask about.

CHAPTER

19

"Amren's right," Rhys drawled, leaning against the threshold of the town house sitting room. "You are like dogs, waiting for me to come home. Maybe I should buy treats."

Cassian gave him a vulgar gesture from where he lounged on the couch before the hearth, an arm slung over the back behind Mor. Though everything about his powerful, muscled body suggested someone at ease, there was a tightness in his jaw, a coiled-up energy that told me they'd been waiting here for a while.

Azriel lingered by the window, comfortably ensconced in shadows, a light flurry of snow dusting the lawn and street behind him. And Amren …

Nowhere to be seen.

Damp and cold from the mist and wind that chased us down from the Prison, I strode for the armchair across from the couch, which had been shaped, like so much of the furniture here, to accommodate Illyrian wings. I stretched my stiff limbs toward the fire, and stifled a groan at the delicious heat.

"How'd it go?" Mor said, straightening beside Cassian. No gown today—just practical black pants and a thick blue sweater.

"The Bone Carver," Rhys said, "is a busybody gossip who likes to pry into other people's business far too much."

"But?" Cassian demanded, bracing his arms on his knees, wings tucked in tight.

"But," Rhys said, "he can also be helpful, when he chooses. And it seems we need to start doing what we do best."

I flexed my numbed fingers, content to let them discuss, needing a moment to reel myself back in, to shut out what I'd revealed to the Bone Carver.

And what the Bone Carver suggested I might actually be asked to do with that book. The abilities I might have.

So Rhys told them of the Cauldron, and the reason behind the temple pillagings, to no shortage of swearing and questions—and revealed nothing of what I had admitted in exchange for the information. Azriel emerged from his wreathing shadows to ask the most questions; his face and voice remained unreadable. Cassian, surprisingly, kept quiet—as if the general understood that the shadowsinger would know what information was necessary, and was busy assessing it for his own forces.

When Rhys was done, his spymaster said, "I'll contact my sources in the Summer Court about where the half of the Book of Breathings is hidden. I can fly into the human world myself to figure out where they're keeping their part of the Book before we ask them for it."

"No need," Rhys said. "And I don't trust this information, even with your sources, with anyone outside of this room. Save for Amren."

"They can be trusted," Azriel said with quiet steel, his scarred hands clenching at his leather-clad sides.

"We're not taking risks where this is concerned," Rhys merely said. He held Azriel's stare, and I could almost hear the silent words Rhys added, It is no judgment or reflection on you, Az. Not at all.

But Azriel yielded no tinge of emotion as he nodded, his hands unfurling.

"So what do you have planned?" Mor cut in—perhaps for Az's sake.

Rhys picked an invisible piece of dirt off his fighting leathers. When he lifted his head, those violet eyes were glacial. "The King of Hybern sacked one of our temples to get a missing piece of the Cauldron. As far as I'm concerned, it's an act of war—an indication that His Majesty has no interest in wooing me."

"He likely remembers our allegiance to the humans in the War, anyway," Cassian said. "He wouldn't jeopardize revealing his plans while trying to sway you, and I bet some of Amarantha's cronies reported to him about Under the Mountain. About how it all ended, I mean." Cassian's throat bobbed.

When Rhys had tried to kill her. I lowered my hands from the fire.

Rhys said, "Indeed. But this means Hybern's forces have already successfully infiltrated our lands—without detection. I plan to return the favor."

Mother above. Cassian and Mor just grinned with feral delight. "How?" Mor asked.

Rhys crossed his arms. "It will require careful planning. But if the Cauldron is in Hybern, then to Hybern we must go. Either to take it back … or use the Book to nullify it.".

"Hybern likely has as many wards and shields around it as we have here," Azriel countered. "We'd need to find a way to get through them undetected first."

A slight nod. "Which is why we start now. While we hunt for the Book. So when we get both halves, we can move swiftly—before word can spread that we even possess it."

Cassian nodded, but asked, "How are you going to retrieve the Book, then?"

I braced myself as Rhys said, "Since these objects are spelled to the individual High Lords, and can only be found by them—through their power … Then, in addition to her uses regarding the handling of the Book of Breathings itself, it seems we possibly have our own detector."

Now they all looked at me.

I cringed. "Perhaps was what the Bone Carver said in regard to me being able to track things. You don't know … " My words faded as Rhys smirked.

"You have a kernel of all our power—like having seven thumbprints. If we've hidden something, if we've made or protected it with our power, no matter where it has been concealed, you will be able to track it through that very magic."

"You can't know that for sure," I tried again.

"No—but there is a way to test it." Rhys was still smiling.

"Here we go," Cassian grumbled. Mor gave Azriel a warning glare to tell him not to volunteer this time. The spymaster just gave her an incredulous look in return.

I might have lounged in my chair to watch their battle of wills had Rhys not said, "With your abilities, Feyre, you might be able to find the half of the Book at the Summer Court—and break the wards around it. But I'm not going to take the carver's word for it, or bring you there without testing you first. To make sure that when it counts, when we need to get that book, you—we do not fail. So we're going on another little trip. To see if you can find a valuable object of mine that I've been missing for a considerably long time."

"Shit," Mor said, plunging her hands into the thick folds of her knew , I realised.

"Where?" I managed to say.

It was Azriel who answered. "To the Weaver."

Rhys held up a hand as Cassian opened his mouth. "The test," he said, "will be to see if Feyre can identify the object of mine in the Weaver's trove. When we get to the Summer Court, Tarquin might have spelled his half of the Book to look different, feel different."

"By the Cauldron, Rhys," Mor snapped, setting both feet on the carpet. "Are you out of your—"

"Who is the Weaver?" I pushed.

"An ancient, wicked creature," Azriel said, and I surveyed the faint scars on his wings, his neck, and wondered how many such things he'd encountered in his immortal life. If they were any worse than the people who shared blood ties with him. "Who should remain unbothered," he added in Rhys's direction. "Find another way to test her abilities."

Rhys merely shrugged and looked to me. To let me choose. Always—it was always my choice with him these days. Yet he hadn't let me go back to the Spring Court during those two visits—because he knew how badly I needed to get away from it?

I gnawed on my lower lip, weighing the risks, waiting to feel any kernel of fear, of emotion. But this afternoon had drained any reserve of such things. "The Bone Carver, the Weaver … Can't you ever just call someone by a given name?"

Cassian chuckled, and Mor settled back in the sofa cushions.

Only Rhys, it seemed, understood that it hadn't entirely been a joke. His face was tight. Like he knew precisely how tired I was—how I knew I should be quaking at the thought of this Weaver, but after the Bone Carver, what I'd revealed to it … I could feel nothing at all.

Rhys said to me, "What about adding one more name to that list?"

I didn't particularly like the sound of that. Mor said as much.

"Emissary," Rhysand said, ignoring his cousin. "Emissary to the Night Court—for the human realm."

Azriel said, "There hasn't been one for five hundred years, Rhys."

"There also hasn't been a human-turned-immortal since then, either." Rhys met my gaze. "The human world must be as prepared as we are—especially if the King of Hybern plans to shatter the wall and unleash his forces upon them. We need the other half of the Book from those mortal queens—and if we can't use magic to influence them, then they're going to have to bring it to us."

More silence. On the street beyond the bay of windows, wisps of snow brushed past, dusting the cobblestones.

Rhys jerked his chin at me. "You are an immortal faerie—with a human heart. Even as such, you might very well set foot on the continent and be … hunted for it. So we set up a base in neutral territory. In a place where humans trust us—trust you, Feyre. And where other humans might risk going to meet with you. To hear the voice of Prythian after five centuries."

"My family's estate," I said.

"Mother's tits, Rhys," Cassian cut in, wings flaring wide enough to nearly knock over the ceramic vase on the side table next to him. "You think we can just take over her family's house, demand that of them?"

Nesta hadn't wanted any dealings with the Fae, and Elain was so gentle, so sweet … how could I bring them into this?

"The land," Mor said, reaching over to return the vase to its place, "will run red with blood, Cassian, regardless of what we do with her family. It is now a matter of where that blood will$flow—and how much will spill. How much human blood we can save."

And maybe it made me a cowardly fool, but I said, "The Spring Court borders the wall—"

"The wall stretches across the sea. We'll fly in offshore," Rhys said without so much as a blink. "I won't risk discovery from any court, though word might spread quickly enough once we're there. I know it won't be easy, Feyre, but if there's any way you could convince those queens—"

"I'll do it." I said. Clare Beddor's broken and nailed body flashed in my vision. Amarantha had been one of his commanders. Just one—of many. The King of Hybern had to be horrible beyond reckoning to be her master. If these people got their hands on my sisters … "They might not be happy about it, but I'll make Elain and Nesta do it."

I didn't have the nerve to ask Rhys if he could simply force my family to agree to help us if they refused. I wondered if his powers would work on Nesta when even Tamlin's glamour had failed against her steel mind.

"Then it's settled," Rhys said. None of them looked particularly happy. "Once Feyre darling returns from the Weaver, we'll bring Hybern to its knees."

Rhys and the others were gone that night—where, no one told me. But after the events of the day, I barely finished devouring the food Nuala and Cerridwen brought to my room before I tumbled into sleep.

I dreamed of a long, white bone, carved with horrifying accuracy: my face, twisted in agony and despair; the ash knife in my hand; a pool of blood leaking away from two corpses—

But I awoke to the watery light of winter dawn—my stomach full from the night before.

A mere minute after I'd risen to consciousness, Rhys knocked on my door. I'd barely granted him permission to enter before he stalked inside like a midnight wind, and chucked a belt hung with knives onto the foot of the bed.

"Hurry," he said, flinging open the doors of the armoire and yanking out my fighting leathers. He tossed them onto the bed, too. "I want to be gone before the sun is fully up."

"Why?" I said, pushing back the covers. No wings today.

"Because time is of the essence." He dug out my socks and boots. "Once the King of Hybern realizes that someone is searching for the Book of Breathings to nullify the powers of the Cauldron, then his agents will begin hunting for it, too."

"You suspected this for a while, though." I hadn't had the chance to discuss it with him last night. "The Cauldron, the king, the Book … You wanted it confirmed, but you were waiting for me."

"Had you agreed to work with me two months ago, I would have taken you right to the Bone Carver to see if he confirmed my suspicions about your talents. But things didn't go as planned."

No, they most certainly hadn't.

"The reading," I said, sliding my feet into fleece-lined, thick-soled slippers. "That's why you insisted on the lessons. So if your suspicions were true and I could harness the Book … I could actually read it—or any translation of whatever is inside." A book that old might very well be written in an entirely different language. A different alphabet.

"Again," he said, now striding for the dresser, "had you started to work with me, I would have told you why. I couldn't risk discovery otherwise." He paused with a hand on the knob. "You should have learned to read no matter what. But yes, when I told you it served my own purposes—it was because of this. Do you blame me for it?"

"No," I said, and meant it. "But I'd prefer to be notified of any future schemes."

"Duly noted." Rhys yanked open the drawers and pulled out my undergarments. He dangled the bits of midnight lace and chuckled. "I'm surprised you didn't demand Nuala and Cerridwen buy you something else."

I stalked to him, snatching the lace away. "You're drooling on the carpet." I slammed the bathing room door before he could respond.

He was waiting as I emerged, already warm within the fur-lined leather. He held up the belt of knives, and I studied the loops and straps. "No swords, no bow or arrows," he said. He'd worn his own Illyrian fighting leathers—that simple, brutal sword strapped down his spine.

"But knives are fine?"

Rhys knelt and spread wide the web of leather and steel, beckoning for me to stick a leg through one loop.

I did as instructed, ignoring the brush of his steady hands on my thighs as I stepped through the other loop, and he began tightening and buckling things. "She will not notice a knife, as she has knives in her cottage for eating and her work. But things that are out of place—objects that have not been there … A sword, a bow and arrow … She might sense those things."

"What about me?"

He tightened a strap. Strong, capable hands—so at odds with the finery he usually wore to dazzle the rest of the world into thinking he was something else entirely. "Do not make a sound, do not touch anything but the object she took from me."

Rhys looked up, hands braced on my thighs.

Bow, he'd once ordered Tamlin. And now here he was, on his knees before me. His eyes glinted as if he remembered it, too. Had that been a part of his game—that façade? Or had it been vengeance for the horrible blood feud between them?

"If we're correct about your powers," he said, "if the Bone Carver wasn't lying to us, then you and the object will have the same … imprint, thanks to the preserving spells I placed on it long ago. You are one and the same. She will not notice your presence so long as you touch only it. You will be invisible to her."

"She's blind?"

A nod. "But her other senses are lethal. So be quick, and quiet. Find the object and run out, Feyre." His hands lingered on my legs, wrapping around the back of them.

"And if she notices me?"

His hands tightened slightly. "Then we'll learn precisely how skilled you are."

Cruel, conniving bastard. I glared at him.

Rhys shrugged. "Would you rather I locked you in the House of Wind and stuffed you with food and made you wear fine clothes and plan my parties?"

No.

" not get this object yourself, if it's so important?"

"Because the Weaver knows me—and if I am caught, there would be a steep price. High Lords are not to interfere with her, no matter the direness of the situation. There are many treasures in her hoard, some she has kept for millennia. Most will never be retrieved—because the High Lords do not dare be caught, thanks to the laws that protect her, thanks to her wrath. Any thieves on their behalf … Either they do not return, or they are never sent, for fear of it leading back to their High Lord. But you … She does not know you. You belong to every court."

"So I'm your huntress and thief?"

His hands slid down to cup the backs of my knees as he said with a roguish grin, "You are my salvation, Feyre."Mate...

CHAPTER

20

Rhysand winnowed us into a wood that was older, more aware, than any place I'd been.

The gnarled beech trees were tightly woven together, splattered and draped so thoroughly with moss and lichen that it was nearly impossible to see the bark beneath.

"Where are we?" I breathed, hardly daring to whisper.

Rhys kept his hands within casual reach of his weapons. "In the heart of Prythian, there is a large, empty territory that divides the North and South. At the center of it is our sacred mountain."

My heart stumbled, and I focused on my steps through the ferns and moss and roots. "This forest," Rhys went on, "is on the eastern edge of that neutral territory. Here, there is no High Lord. Here, the law is made by who is strongest, meanest, most cunning. And the Weaver of the Wood is at the top of their food chain."

The trees groaned—though there was no breeze to shift them. No, the air here was tight and stale. "Amarantha didn't wipe them out?"

"Amarantha was no fool," Rhys said, his face dark. "She did not touch these creatures or disturb the wood. For years, I tried to find ways to manipulate her to make that foolish mistake, but she never bought it."

"And now we're disturbing her—for a mere test."

He chuckled, the sound bouncing off the gray stones strewn across the forest floor like scattered marbles. "Cassian tried to convince me last night not to take you. I thought he might even punch me."

"Why?" I barely knew him.

"Who knows? With Cassian, he's probably more interested in fucking you than protecting you." True.. But the weaver was death.. and cassian had known.

"You could, you know," Rhys said, holding up the branch of a scrawny beech for me to slip under. "If you needed to move on in a physical sense, I'm sure Cassian would be more than happy to oblige."

It felt like a test in probably was, to see if I loved him.. or wanted cassian instead. And it pissed me off enough that I crooned, "Then tell him to come to my room tonight, and I'll kick his ass to hell and back."

"If you survive this test."

I paused atop a little lichen-crusted rock. "You seem pleased by the idea that I won't."No he didn't, but I was bored.. and in a way testing him for the truth.

"Quite the opposite, Feyre." He prowled to where I stood on the stone. I was almost eye level with him. The forest went even quieter—the trees seeming to lean closer, as if to catch every word. "I'll let Cassian know you're … open to his advances."

"Good," I said. A bit of hollowed-out air pushed against me, like a flicker of night. That power along my bones and blood stirred in answer.

I made to jump off the stone, but he gripped my chin, the movement too fast to detect. His words were a lethal caress as he said, "Did you enjoy the sight of me kneeling before you?"

I knew he could hear my heart as it ratcheted into a thunderous beat. I gave a cocky smile and raise a brow, yanking my chin out of his touch and leaping off the stone. I might have aimed for his feet. And he might have shifted out of the way just enough to avoid it. "Isn't that all you males are good for, anyway?" the words were cocky and said with a slight swagger.

His answering smile evoked silken sheets and jasmine-scented breezes at midnight.

A dangerous line—one Rhys was forcing me to walk to keep me from thinking about what I was about to face, about what a wreck I was inside.

Anger, this … flirtation, annoyance … He knew those were my crutches.

What I was about to encounter, then, must be truly harrowing if he wanted me going in there mad—thinking about sex, about anything but the Weaver of the Wood.

"Nice try," I said with an innocent smile. Rhysand just shrugged and swaggered off into the trees ahead.

Yes, it had been to distract me, but—

I walked after him as silently as I could. Not wanting to disturb any creatures.

A small, whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof and half-crumbling chimney sat in the center. Ordinary—almost mortal. There was even a well, its bucket perched on the stone lip, and a wood pile beneath one of the round windows of the cottage. No sound or light within—not even smoke puffed from the chimney.

The few birds in the forest fell quiet. Not entirely, but to keep their chatter to a minimum. And—there.

Faint, coming from inside the cottage, was a pretty, steady humming.

It might have been the sort of place I would have stopped if I were thirsty, or hungry, or in need of shelter for the night.

Maybe that was the trap.

The trees around the clearing, so close that their branches nearly clawed at the thatched roof, might very well have been the bars of a cage.

Rhys inclined his head toward the cottage, bowing with dramatic grace.

In, out—don't make a sound. Find whatever object it was and snatch it from beneath a blind person's nose.

And then run like hell.

Mossy earth paved the way to the front door, already cracked slightly. A bit of cheese. And I was the foolish mouse about to fall for it.

Eyes twinkling, Rhys mouthed, Good luck.

I gave him a vulgar gesture and slowly, silently made my way toward the front door.

The woods seemed to monitor each of my steps. When I glanced behind, Rhys was gone.

He hadn't said if he'd interfere if I were in mortal peril. I probably should have asked.

I avoided any leaves and stones, falling into a pattern of movement that some part of my body—some part that was not born of the High Lords—remembered.

Like waking up. That's what it felt like.

I passed the well. Not a speck of dirt, not a stone out of place. A perfect, pretty trap, that mortal part of me warned. A trap designed from a time when humans were prey; now laid for a smarter, immortal sort of game.

I was not prey any longer, I decided as I eased up to that door.

And I was not a mouse.

I was a wolf.

I listened on the threshold, the rock worn as if many, many boots had passed through—and perhaps never passed back over again. The words of her song became clear now, her voice sweet and beautiful, like sunlight on a stream:

"There were two sisters, they went playing,

To see their father's ships come sailing …

And when they came unto the sea-brim

The elder did push the younger in."

A honeyed voice, for an ancient, horrible song. I'd heard it before—slightly different, but sung by humans who had no idea that it had come from faerie throats.

I listened for another moment, trying to hear anyone else. But there was only a clatter and thrum of some sort of device, and the Weaver's song.

"Sometimes she sank, and sometimes she swam,

'Til her corpse came to the miller's dam."

My breath was tight in my chest, but I kept it even—directing it through my mouth in silent breaths. I eased open the front door, just an inch.

No squeak—no whine of rusty hinges. Another piece of the pretty trap: practically inviting thieves in. I peered inside when the door had opened wide enough.

A large main room, with a small, shut door in the back. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, crammed with bric-a-brac: books, shells, dolls, herbs, pottery, shoes, crystals, more books, jewels … From the ceiling and wood rafters hung all manner of chains, dead birds, dresses, ribbons, gnarled bits of wood, strands of pearls …

A junk shop—of some immortal hoarder.

And that hoarder …

In the gloom of the cottage, there sat a large spinning wheel, cracked and dulled with age.

And before that ancient spinning wheel, her back to me, sat the Weaver.

Her thick hair was of richest onyx, tumbling down to her slender waist as she worked the wheel, snow-white hands feeding and pulling the thread around a thorn-sharp spindle.

She looked young—her gray gown simple but elegant, sparkling faintly in the dim forest light through the windows as she sang in a voice of glittering gold:

"But what did he do with her breastbone?

He made him a viol to play on.

What'd he do with her fingers so small?

He made pegs to his viol withall."

The fiber she fed into the wheel was white—soft. Like wool, but … I knew, in that lingering human part of me, it was not wool. I knew that I did not want to learn what creature it had come from, who she was spinning into thread.A fae life strand perhaps.

Because on the shelf directly beyond her were cones upon cones of threads—of every color and texture. And on the shelf adjacent to her were swaths and yards of that woven thread—woven, I realized, on the massive loom nearly hidden in the darkness near the hearth. The Weaver's loom.

I had come on spinning day—would she have been singing if I had come on weaving day instead? From the strange, fear-drenched scent that came from those bolts of fabric, I already knew the answer.

A wolf. I was a wolf.

I stepped into the cottage, careful of the scattered debris on the earthen floor. She kept working, the wheel clattering so merrily, so at odds with her horrible song:

"And what did he do with her nose-ridge?

Unto his viol he made a bridge.

What did he do with her veins so blue?

He made strings to his viol thereto."

I scanned the room, trying not to listen to the lyrics.

Nothing. I felt … nothing that might pull me toward one object in particular. Perhaps it would be a blessing if I were indeed not the one to track the Book—if today was not the start of what was sure to be a slew of miseries.

The Weaver perched there, working.

I scanned the shelves, the ceiling. Borrowed time. I was on borrowed time, and I was almost out of it.

Had Rhys sent me on a fool's errand? Maybe there was nothing here. Maybe this object had been taken. It would be just like him to do that. To tease me in the woods, to see what sort of things might make my body react.

And maybe I resented Tamlin enough in that moment to enjoy that deadly bit of flirtation. Maybe I was as much a monster as the female spinning before me.

But if I was a monster, then I supposed Rhys was as well.

Rhys and I were one in the same—beyond the power that he'd given me. It'd be fitting if Tamlin hated me, too, once he realized I'd truly left.

I felt it, then—like a tap on my shoulder.

I pivoted, keeping one eye on the Weaver and the other on the room as I wove through the maze of tables and junk. Like a beacon, a bit of light laced with his half smile, it tugged me.

Hello, it seemed to say. Have you come to claim me at last?

Yes—yes, I wanted to say. Even as part of me wished it were otherwise.

The Weaver sang behind me,

"What did he do with her eyes so bright?

On his viol he set at first light.

What did he do with her tongue so rough?

'Twas the new till and it spoke enough."

I followed that pulse—toward the shelf lining the wall beside the hearth. Nothing. And nothing on the second. But the third, right above my eyeline … There.

I could almost smell his salt-and-citrus scent. The Bone Carver had been correct.

I rose on my toes to examine the shelf. An old letter knife, books in leather that I did not want to touch or smell; a handful of acorns, a tarnished crown of ruby and jasper, and—

A ring.

A ring of twisted strands of gold and silver, flecked with pearl, and set with a stone of deepest, solid blue. Sapphire—but different. I'd never seen a sapphire like that, even at my father's offices. This one … I could have sworn that in the pale light, the lines of a six-pointed star radiated across the round, opaque surface.

Rhys—this had Rhys written all over it.

He'd sent me here for a ring?

The Weaver sang,

"Then bespake the treble string,

'O yonder is my father the king.'"

I watched her for another heartbeat, gauging the distance between the shelf and the open door. Grab the ring, and I could be gone in a heartbeat. Quick, quiet, calm.

"Then bespake the second string,

'O yonder sits my mother the queen.' "

I dropped a hand toward one of the knives strapped to my thighs. When I got back to Rhys, maybe I'd stab him in the gut.

That fast, the memory of phantom blood covered my hands. I knew how it'd feel to slide my dagger through his skin and bones and flesh. Knew how the blood would dribble out, how he'd groan in pain—

I shut out the thought, even as I could feel the blood of those faeries soaking that human part of me that hadn't died and belonged to no one but my miserable self.

"Then bespake the strings all three,

'Yonder is my sister that drowned me.' "

My hand was quiet as a final, dying breath as I plucked the ring from the shelf.

The Weaver stopped singing.

CHAPTER

21

I froze, the ring now in the pocket of my jacket. She'd finished the last song—maybe she'd start another.

Maybe.

The spinning wheel slowed.

I backed a step toward the door. Then another.

Slower and slower, each rotation of the ancient wheel longer than the last.

Only ten steps to the door.

Five.

The wheel went round, one last time, so slow I could see each of the spokes.

Two.

I turned for the door as she lashed out with a white hand, gripping the wheel and stopping it wholly.

The door before me snicked shut.

I lunged for the handle, but there was none.

Window. Get to the window—

"Who is in my house?" she said softly.

Fear—undiluted, unbroken fear—slammed into me, and I remembered. I remembered what it was to be human and helpless and weak. I remembered what it was to want to fight to live, to be willing to do anything to stay breathing—Iron. I was iron, unmoving, unbreakable. Iron.

I reached the window beside the door. Sealed. No latch, no opening. Just glass that was not glass. Solid and impenetrable.

The Weaver turned her face toward me.

Wolf or mouse, it made no difference, because I became no more than an animal, sizing up my chance of survival.

"What are you?" she said in a voice that was so young and lovely. But false.

I was _not _going up that chimney, **GROSS! **But... I did kinda want to throw that gunk in his face...

"What is like all," she mused, taking one graceful step toward me, "but unlike all?"

I was a wolf.

And I bit when cornered.

I lunged for the sole candle burning on the table in the center of the room. And hurled it against the wall of woven thread—against all those miserable, dark bolts of fabric. Woven bodies, skins, lives. Let them be free.

Fire erupted, and the Weaver's shriek was so piercing I thought my head might shatter; thought my blood might boil in its veins.

She dashed for the flames, as if she'd put them out with those flawless white hands, her mouth of rotted teeth open and screaming like there was nothing but black hell inside her.

I hurtled for the door and yanked it open, shutting it behind me, and climbing onto the roof.

I grabbed a big handful of oil, hair and fat.

A tree branch hung low and close by, and I scrambled across that heinous roof, trying not to think about who and what I was stepping on. And how easily I could fall.A heartbeat later, I'd jumped onto the waiting branch, scrambling into the leaves and moss as the Weaver screamed, "WHERE ARE YOU?"

But I was running through the tree—running toward another one nearby. I leaped from branch to branch, bare hands tearing on the wood. Where was Rhysand?

Farther and farther I fled, her screams chasing me, though they grew ever-distant.

Where are you, where are you, where are you—

And then, lounging on a branch in a tree before me, one arm draped over the edge, Rhysand drawled, "What the hell did you do?"

I skidded to a stop, breathing raw. I thought my lungs might actually be bleeding.

"You," I chucked that handful at him. spluttered, staring at me with shocked wide violet eyes, the fat running down his face. And I gave him and innocent smile and said " payback time."

He only smirked slowly, and grabbed the fat on his face... And lobbed it at me. Hard. I dodged the brunt of it, but a bit still caught me on my neck sliding down.

But then he raised a finger to his lips and winnowed to me—grabbing my waist with one hand and cupping the back of my neck with his other as he spirited us away—

To Velaris. To just above the House of we had a massive fat/oil/hair fight.

We free-fell from the roof after 20 minutes, and I didn't have breath to scream as his wings appeared, spreading wide, and he curved us into a steady glide … right through the open windows of what had to be a war room. Cassian was there—in the middle of arguing with Amren about something.

Both froze as we landed on the red floor.

There was a mirror on the wall behind them, and I glimpsed myself long enough to know why they were gaping.

My face was scratched and I was covered in dirt and grease—boiled fat—and mortar dust, the hair stuck to me, and I smelled—

"You smell like barbecue," Amren said, cringing a bit.

Cassian loosened the hand he'd wrapped around the fighting knife at his thigh.


	21. Chapter 21

2 meeting part 3:

"I was scared out of my mind," Rhys admitted, not a shade of shame to be found. "I'd been learning to wield my powers, but Illyrian magic was a mere fraction of it. And it's rare amongst them—usually possessed only by the most powerful, pure-bred warriors." Again, I looked at the slumbering Siphons atop the warriors' hands. "I tried to use a Siphon during those years," Rhys said. "And shattered about a dozen before I realized it wasn't compatible—the stones couldn't hold it. My power flows and is honed in other ways."

"So difficult, being such a powerful High Lord," Mor teased.

Rhys rolled his eyes. "The camp-lord banned me from using my magic. For all our sakes. But I had no idea how to fight when I set foot into that training ring that day. The other boys in my age group knew it, too. Especially one in particular, who took a look at me, and beat me into a bloody mess."

"You were so clean," Cassian said, shaking his head. "The pretty half-breed son of the High Lord—how fancy you were in your new training clothes."

"Cassian," Azriel told me with that voice like darkness given sound, "resorted to getting new clothes over the years by challenging other boys to fights, with the prize being the clothes off their backs." There was no pride in the words—not for his people's brutality. I didn't blame the shadowsinger, though. To treat anyone that way …

Cassian, however, chuckled. But I was now taking in the broad, strong shoulders, the light in his eyes.

I'd never met anyone else in Prythian who had ever been hungry, desperate—not like I'd been.

Cassian blinked, and the way he looked at me shifted—more assessing, more … sincere. I could have sworn I saw the words in his eyes: You know what it is like. You know the mark it leaves.

"I'd beaten every boy in our age group twice over already," Cassian went on. "But then Rhys arrived, in his clean clothes, and he smelled … different. Like a true opponent. So I attacked. We both got three lashings apiece for the fight."

I flinched. How nice.

"They do worse, girl," Amren cut in, "in those camps. Three lashings is practically an encouragement to fight again. When they do something truly bad, bones are broken. Repeatedly. Over weeks."Nice.

I said to Rhys, "Your mother willingly sent you into that?" To learn to fight.

"My mother didn't want me to rely on my power," Rhysand said. "She knew from the moment she conceived me that I'd be hunted my entire life. Where one strength failed, she wanted others to save me. Correct too.

"My education was another weapon—which was why she went with me: to tutor me after lessons were done for the day. And when she took me home that first night to our new house at the edge of the camp, she made me read by the window. It was there that I saw Cassian trudging through the mud—toward the few ramshackle tents outside of the camp. I asked her where he was going, and she told me that bastards are given nothing: they find their own shelter, own food. If they survive and get picked to be in a war-band, they'll be bottom-ranking forever, but receive their own tents and supplies. But until then, he'd stay in the cold."

"Those mountains," Azriel added, his face hard as ice, "offer some of the harshest conditions you can imagine."

I'd spent enough time in frozen woods to get it.

"After my lessons," Rhys went on, "my mother cleaned my lashings, and as she did, I realized for the first time what it was to be warm, and safe, and cared for. And it didn't sit well."

"Apparently not," Cassian said. "Because in the dead of night, that little prick woke me up in my piss-poor tent and told me to keep my mouth shut and come with him. And maybe the cold made me stupid, but I did. His mother was livid. But I'll never forget the look on her beautiful face when she saw me and said, 'There is a bathtub with hot running water. Get in it or you can go back into the cold.' Being a smart lad, I obeyed. When I got out, she had clean nightclothes and ordered me into bed. I'd spent my life sleeping on the ground—and when I balked, she said she understood because she had felt the same once, and that it would feel as if I was being swallowed up, but the bed was mine for as long as I wanted it."

"And you were friends after that?"

"No—Cauldron no," Rhysand said. "We hated each other, and only behaved because if one of us got into trouble or provoked the other, then neither of us ate that night. My mother started tutoring Cassian, but it wasn't until Azriel arrived a year later that we decided to be allies."

Cassian's grin grew as he reached around Amren to clap his friend on the shoulder. Azriel sighed—the sound of the long-suffering. The warmest expression I'd seen him make. "A new bastard in the camp—and an untrained shadowsinger to boot. Not to mention he couldn't even fly thanks to—"

Mor cut in lazily, "Stay on track, Cassian."

Indeed, any warmth had vanished from Azriel's face. But I quieted my own curiosity as Cassian again shrugged, not even bothering to take note of the silence that seemed to leak from the shadowsinger. Mor saw, though—even if Azriel didn't bother to acknowledge her concerned stare, the hand that she kept looking at as if she'd touch, but thought better of it.

Cassian went on, "Rhys and I made his life a living hell, shadowsinger or no. But Rhys's mother had known Az's mother, and took him in. As we grew older, and the other males around us did, too, we realized everyone else hated us enough that we had better odds of survival sticking together."

"Do you have any gifts?" I asked him. "Like—them?" I jerked my chin to Azriel and Rhys.

"A volatile temper doesn't count," Mor said as Cassian opened his mouth.

He gave her that grin I realized likely meant trouble was coming, but said to me, "No. I don't—not beyond a heaping pile of the killing power. Bastard-born nobody, through and through." Rhys sat forward like he'd object, but Cassian forged ahead, "Even so, the other males knew that we were different. And not because we were two bastards and a half-breed. We were stronger, faster—like the Cauldron knew we'd been set apart and wanted us to find each other. Rhys's mother saw it, too. Especially as we reached the age of maturity, and all we wanted to do was fuck and fight."

"Males are horrible creatures, aren't they?" Amren said.

"Repulsive," Mor said, clicking her tongue.

I smiled at that.

Cassian shrugged. "Rhys's power grew every day—and everyone, even the camp-lords, knew he could mist everyone if he felt like it. And the two of us … we weren't far behind." He tapped his crimson Siphon with a finger. "A bastard Illyrian had never received one of these. Ever. For Az and me to both be appointed them, albeit begrudgingly, had every warrior in every camp across those mountains sizing us up. Only pure-blood pricks get Siphons—born and bred for the killing power. It still keeps them up at night, puzzling over where the hell we got it from."

"Then the War came," Azriel took over. Just the way he said the words made me sit up. Listen. "And Rhys's father visited our camp to see how his son had fared after twenty years."

"My father," Rhys said, swirling his wine once—twice, "saw that his son had not only started to rival him for power, but had allied himself with perhaps the two deadliest Illyrians in history. He got it into his head that if we were given a legion in the War, we might very well turn it against him when we returned."

Cassian snickered. "So the prick separated us. He gave Rhys command of a legion of Illyrians who hated him for being a half-breed, and threw me into a different legion to be a common foot soldier, even when my power outranked any of the war-leaders. Az, he kept for himself as his personal shadowsinger—mostly for spying and his dirty work. We only saw each other on battlefields for the seven years the War raged. They'd send around casualty lists amongst the Illyrians, and I read each one, wondering if I'd see their names on it. But then Rhys was captured—"Amarantha...Miryam...

"That is a story for another time," Rhys said, sharply enough that Cassian lifted his brows, but nodded. Rhys's violet eyes met mine, and I wondered if it was true starlight that flickered so intensely in them as he spoke. "Once I became High Lord, I appointed these four to my Inner Circle, and told the rest of my father's old court that if they had a problem with my friends, they could leave. They all did. Turns out, having a half-breed High Lord was made worse by his appointment of two females and two Illyrian bastards."

As bad as humans, in some ways. "What—what happened to them, then?"

Rhys shrugged, those great wings shifting with the movement. "The nobility of the Night Court fall into one of three categories: those who hated me enough that when Amarantha took over, they joined her court and later found themselves dead; those who hated me enough to try to overthrow me and faced the consequences; and those who hated me, but not enough to be stupid and have since tolerated a half-breed's rule, especially when it so rarely interferes with their miserable lives."

"Are they—are they the ones who live beneath the mountain?"

A nod. "In the Hewn City, yes. I gave it to them, for not being fools. They're happy to stay there, rarely leaving, ruling themselves and being as wicked as they please, for all eternity."

That was the court he must have shown Amarantha when she first arrived—and its wickedness must have pleased her enough that she modeled her own after it.

"The Court of Nightmares," Mor said, sucking on a tooth.

"And what is this court?" I asked, gesturing to them. The most important question.

It was Cassian, eyes clear and bright as his Siphon, who said, "The Court of Dreams."

The Court of Dreams—the dreams of a half-breed High Lord, two bastard warriors, and … the two females. "And you?" I said to Mor and Amren.

Amren merely said, "Rhys offered to make me his Second. No one had ever asked me before, so I said yes, to see what it might be like. I found I enjoyed it."

Mor leaned back in her seat, Azriel now watching every movement she made with subtle, relentless focus.

"I was a dreamer born into the Court of Nightmares," Mor said. She twirled a curl around a finger, and I wondered if her story might be the worst of all of them as she said simply, "So I got out."

"What's your story, then?" Cassian said to me with a jerk of his chin.

I'd assumed Rhysand had told them everything. Rhys merely shrugged at me.

So I straightened. "I was born to a wealthy merchant family, with two older sisters and parents who only cared about their money and social standing. My mother died when I was eight; my father lost his fortune three years later. He sold everything to pay off his debts, moved us into a hovel, and didn't bother to find work while he let us slowly starve for years. I was fourteen when the last of the money ran out, along with the food. He wouldn't work—couldn't, because the debtors came and shattered his leg in front of us. So I went into the forest and taught myself to hunt. And I kept us all alive, if not near starving for five years, until everything happened.

But Cassian said, "You taught yourself to hunt. What about to fight?" I shook my head. Cassian braced his arms on the table. "Lucky for you, you've just found yourself a teacher."

I had never had a female friend before. Ianthe … she had not been one. Not in the way that mattered, I realized. And Nesta and Elain, in those few weeks I'd been at home before Amarantha, had started to fill that role, but … but looking at Mor, I couldn't explain it, couldn't understand it, but … I felt it. Like I could indeed go to dinner with her. Talk to her.

Not that I had much of anything to offer her in return.

Yes, Rhys had been wise to bring me here. To let me decide if I could handle them—the teasing and intensity and power. If I wanted to be a part of a group who would likely push me, and overwhelm me, and maybe frighten me, but … If they were willing to stand against Hybern, after already fighting them five hundred years ago …

I met Cassian's gaze. And though his eyes danced, there was nothing amused in them. "I'll think about it."

Through the bond in my hand/mating bond, I felt a glimmer of pleased surprise. I checked my mental shields—but they were intact. And Rhysand's calm face revealed no hint of its origin.

So I said clearly, steadily to him, "I accept your offer—to work with you. To earn my keep. And help with Hybern in whatever way I can."

"Good," Rhys merely replied. Even as the others raised their brows. Yes, they'd obviously not been told this was an interview of sorts. "Because we start tomorrow."

"Where? And what?" I sputtered.

Rhys interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table, and I realized there was another point to this dinner beyond my decision as he announced to all of us, "Because the King of Hybern is indeed about to launch a war, and he wants to resurrect Jurian to do it."

Jurian—the ancient warrior whose soul Amarantha had imprisoned within that hideous ring as punishment for killing her sister. The ring that contained his eye …

"Bullshit," Cassian spat. "There's no way to do that."

Amren had gone still, and it was she whom Azriel was observing, marking.

Amarantha was just the beginning, Rhys had once told me. Had he known this even then? Had those months Under the Mountain merely been a prelude to whatever hell was about to be unleashed? Resurrecting the dead. What sort of unholy power—

Mor groaned, "Why would the king want to resurrect Jurian? He was so odious. All he liked to do was talk about himself."

The age of these people hit me like a brick, despite all they'd told me minutes earlier. The War—they had all … they had all fought in the War five hundred years ago.

"That's what I want to find out," Rhysand said. "And how the king plans to do it."

Amren at last said, "Word will have reached him about Feyre's Making. He knows it's possible for the dead to be remade."

I shifted in my seat. I'd expected brute armies, pure bloodshed. But this—

"All seven High Lords would have to agree to that," Mor countered. "There's not a chance it happens. He'll take another route." Her eyes narrowed to slits as she faced Rhys. "All the slaughtering—the massacres at temples. You think it's tied to this?"，Yes.

"I know it's tied to this. I didn't want to tell you until I knew for certain. But Azriel confirmed that they'd raided the memorial in Sangravah three days ago. They're looking for something—or found it." Azriel nodded in confirmation, even as Mor cast a surprised look in his direction. Azriel gave her an apologetic shrug back.

I breathed, "That—that's why the ring and the finger bone vanished after Amarantha died. For this. But who …" My mouth went dry. "They never caught the Attor, did they?"

Rhys said too quietly, "No. No, they didn't." The food in my stomach turned leaden. He said to Amren, "How does one take an eye and a finger bone and make it into a man again? And how do we stop it?"

Amren frowned at her untouched wine. "You already know how to find the answer. Go to the Prison. Talk to the Bone Carver."

"Shit," Mor and Cassian both said.

Rhys said calmly, "Perhaps you would be more effective, Amren."

I was grateful for the table separating us as Amren hissed, "I will not set foot in the Prison, Rhysand, and you know it. So go yourself, or send one of these dogs to do it for you."

Cassian grinned, showing his white, straight teeth—perfect for biting. Amren snapped hers once in return.

Azriel just shook his head. "I'll go. The Prison sentries know me—what I am."

I wondered if the shadowsinger was usually the first to throw himself into danger. Mor's fingers stilled on the stem of her wineglass, her eyes narrowing on Amren. The jewels, the red gown—all perhaps a way to downplay whatever dark power roiled in her veins—

"If anyone's going to the Prison," Rhys said before Mor opened her mouth, "it's me. And Feyre."Lovely matey practical all the same.

"What?" Mor demanded, palms now flat on the table.

"He won't talk to Rhys," Amren said to the others, "or to Azriel. Or to any of us. We've got nothing to offer him. But an immortal with a mortal soul …" She stared at my chest as if she could see the heart pounding beneath … "The Bone Carver might be willing indeed to talk to her."

They stared at me. As if waiting for me to beg not to go, to curl up and cower. Their quick, brutal interview to see if they wanted to work with me, I supposed.

But the Bone Carver, the naga, the Attor, the Suriel, the Bogge, the Middengard Wyrm … Maybe they'd broken whatever part of me truly feared. Or maybe fear was only something I now felt in my dreams.

"Your choice, Feyre," Rhys said if it wan't a big choice in all their eyes.

To shirk and mourn or face some unknown horror—the choice was easy. "How bad can it be?" was my response.

"Bad," Cassian said. None of them bothered to contradict him.

CHAPTER

17

Jurian.

The name clanged through me, even after we finished dinner, even after Mor and Cassian and Azriel and Amren had stopped debating and snarling about who would do what and be where while Rhys and I went to the Prison—whatever that was—tomorrow.

Rhys flew me back over the city, plunging into the lights and darkness. I quickly found I much preferred ascending, and couldn't bring myself to watch for too long without feeling my dinner rise up. Not fear—just some reaction of my body.

We flew in silence, the whistling winter wind the only sound, despite his cocoon of warmth blocking it from freezing me entirely. Only when the music of the streets welcomed us did I peer into his face, his features unreadable as he focused on flying. "Tonight—I felt you again. Through the bond. Did I get past your shields?"I almost said mating bond.. Oh dear.

"No," he said, scanning the cobblestone streets below. "This bond is … a living thing. An open channel between us, shaped by my powers, shaped … by what you needed when we made the bargain."

"I needed not to be dead when I agreed."

"You needed not to be alone."

Our eyes met. It was too dark to read whatever was in his gaze. I was the one who looked away first.

"I'm still learning how and why we can sometimes feel things the other doesn't want known," he admitted. "So I don't have an explanation for what you felt tonight."

You needed not to be alone… .

But what about him? Fifty years he'd been separated from his friends, his family …

I said, "You let Amarantha and the entire world think you rule and delight in a Court of Nightmares. It's all a front—to keep what matters most safe."

The city lights gilded his face. "I love my people, and my family. Do not think I wouldn't become a monster to keep them protected."

"You already did that Under the Mountain." The words were out before I could stop them.

The wind rustled his hair. "And I suspect I'll have to do it again soon enough."

"What was the cost?" I dared ask. "Of keeping this place secret and free?"

He shot straight down, wings beating to keep us smooth as we landed on the roof of the town house. I made to step away, but he gripped my chin. "You know the cost already."

Amarantha's whore.

He nodded, and I think I might have said the two vile words the bond.

"When she tricked me out of my powers and left the scraps, it was still more than the others. And I decided to use it to tap into the mind of every Night Court citizen she captured, and anyone who might know the truth. I made a web between all of them, actively controlling their minds every second of every day, every decade, to forget about Velaris, to forget about Mor, and Amren, and Cassian, and Azriel. Amarantha wanted to know who was close to me—who to kill and torture. But my true court was here, ruling this city and the others. And I used the remainder of my power to shield them all from sight and sound. I had only enough for one city—one place. I chose the one that had been hidden from history already. I chose, and now must live with the consequences of knowing there were more left outside who suffered. But for those here … anyone flying or traveling near Velaris would see nothing but barren rock, and if they tried to walk through it, they'd find themselves suddenly deciding otherwise. Sea travel and merchant trading were halted—sailors became farmers, working the earth around Velaris instead. And because my powers were focused on shielding them all, Feyre, I had very little to use against Amarantha. So I decided that to keep her from asking questions about the people who mattered, I would be her whore."

He'd done all of that, had done such horrible things … done everything for his people, his friends. And the only piece of himself that he'd hidden and managed to keep her from tainting, destroying, even if it meant fifty years trapped in a cage of rock …

Those wings now flared wide. How many knew about those wings outside of Velaris or the Illyrian war-camps? Or had he wiped all memory of them from Prythian long before Amarantha?

Rhys released my chin. But as he lowered his hand, I gripped his wrist, feeling the solid strength. "It's a shame," I said, the words nearly gobbled up by the sound of the city music. "That others in Prythian don't know. A shame that you let them think the worst."

He took a step back, his wings beating the air like mighty drums. "As long as the people who matter most know the truth, I don't care about the rest. Get some sleep."

Then he shot into the sky, and was swallowed by the darkness between the stars.

I tumbled into a sleep so heavy my dreams were an undertow that dragged me down, down, down until I couldn't escape them.

I lay naked and prone on a familiar red marble floor while Amarantha slid a knife along my bare ribs, the steel scraping softly against my skin. "Lying, traitorous human," she purred, "with your filthy, lying heart."

The knife scratched, a cool caress. I struggled to get up, but my body wouldn't work.

She pressed a kiss to the hollow of my throat. "You're as much a monster as me." She curved the knife over my breast, angling it toward my peaked nipple, as if she could see the heart beating beneath. I started sobbing. "Don't waste your tears."

Someone far away was roaring my name; begging for ...

"I'm going to make eternity a hell for you," she promised, the tip of the dagger piercing the sensitive flesh beneath my breast, her lips hovering a breath above mine as she pushed—

Hands—there were hands on my shoulders, shaking me, squeezing me. I thrashed against them, screaming, screaming—All an act... To do what I didn't I was bored.

"FEYRE."

The voice was at once the night and the dawn and the stars and the earth, and every inch of my body calmed at the primal dominance in .

"Open your eyes," the voice ordered.

I did.

My throat was raw, my mouth full of ash, my face soaked and sticky, and Rhysand—Rhysand was hovering above me, his eyes wide.

"It was a dream," he said, his breathing as hard as mine.

The moonlight trickling through the windows illuminated the dark lines of swirling tattoos down his arm, his shoulders, across his sculpted chest. Like the ones I bore on my arm. He scanned my face. "A dream," he said again.

Velaris. I was in Velaris, at his house. And I had—my dream—

The sheets, the blankets were ripped. Shredded. But not with a knife. And that ashy, smoky taste coating my mouth …

My hand was unnervingly steady as I lifted it to find my fingers ending in simmering embers. Living claws of flame that had sliced through my bed linens like they were cauterizing wounds—

I shoved him off with a hard shoulder, falling out of bed and slamming into a small chest before I hurtled into the bathing room, fell to my knees before the toilet, and was sick to my stomach. Again. Again. My fingertips hissed against the cool porcelain.

Large, warm hands pulled my hair back a moment later. Rhys. So caring and .. STOPPING THOUGHTS NOW.

"Breathe," Rhys said. "Imagine them winking out like candles, one by one."

I heaved into the toilet again, shuddering as light and heat crested and rushed out of me, and savored the empty, cool dark that pooled in their wake.

"Well, that's one way to do it," he said.

When I dared to look at my hands, braced on the bowl, the embers had been extinguished. Even that power in my veins, along my bones, slumbered once more.

"I have this dream," Rhys said as I retched again, holding my hair. "Where it's not me stuck under her, but Cassian or Azriel. And she's pinned their wings to the bed with spikes, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. She's commanded me to watch, and I have no choice but to see how I failed them."

I clung to the toilet, spitting once, and reached up to flush. I watched the water swirl away entirely before I twisted my head to look at him.

His fingers were gentle, but firm where he'd fisted them in my hair. "You never failed them," I rasped.

"I did … horrible things to ensure that." Those violet eyes near-glowed in the dim light.

"So did I." My sweat clung like blood—the blood of those two faeries—

I pivoted, barely turning in time. His other hand stroked long, soothing lines down the curve of my back, as over and over I yielded my dinner. When the latest wave had ebbed, I breathed, "The flames?"

"Autumn Court."

I couldn't muster a response. At some point, I leaned against the coolness of the nearby bathtub and closed my eyes.

When I awoke, sun streamed through the windows, and I was in my bed—tucked in tightly to the fresh, clean wonderful wonderful mate had cared for me and... shut up now, do NOT think like that yet.

I stared up at the sharp grassy slope of the small mountain, shivering at the veils of mist that wafted past. Behind us, the land swept away to brutal cliffs and a violent pewter sea. Ahead, nothing but a wide, flat-topped mountain of gray stone and moss.

Rhys stood at my side, a double-edged sword sheathed down his spine, knives strapped to his legs, clothed in what I could only assume were Illyrian fighting leathers, based on what Cassian and Azriel had worn the night before. The dark pants were tight, the scale-like plates of leather worn and scarred, and sculpted to legs I hadn't noticed were quite that muscled. His close-fitting jacket had been built around the wings that were now fully out, bits of dark, scratched armor added at the shoulders and forearms.

If his attire hadn't told me enough about what we might be facing today—if my own, similar attire hadn't told me enough—all I needed was to take one look at the rock before us and know it wouldn't be pleasant. I'd been so distracted in the study an hour ago by what Rhys had been writing as he drafted a careful request to visit the Summer Court that I hadn't thought to ask what to expect here. Not that Rhys had really bothered explaining why he wanted to visit the Summer Court beyond "improving diplomatic relations."And stealing the book.

"Where are we?" I said, our first words since winnowing in a moment ago. Velaris had been brisk, sunny. This place, wherever it was, was freezing, deserted, barren. Only rock and grass and mist and sea.

"On an island in the heart of the Western Isles," Rhysand said, staring up at the mammoth mountain. "And that," he said, pointing to it, "is the Prison."

There was nothing—no one around.

"I don't see anything."

"The rock is the Prison. And inside it are the foulest, most dangerous creatures and criminals you can imagine."

Go inside—inside the stone, under another mountain—

"This place," he said, "was made before High Lords existed. Before Prythian was Prythian. Some of the inmates remember those days. Remember a time when it was Mor's family, not mine, that ruled the North."

"Why won't Amren go in here?"

"Because she was once a prisoner."

"Not in that body, I take it."

A cruel smile. "No. Not at all."

I shivered.

"The hike will get your blood warming," Rhys said. "Since we can't winnow inside or fly to the entrance—the wards demand that visitors walk in. The long way."

I willed steel to my heart and strode confidently towards the prison.

We climbed until the upper face of the mountain became a wall before us, nothing but grassy slopes sweeping behind, far below, to where they flowed to the restless gray sea. Rhys drew the sword from his back in a swift movement.

"Don't look so surprised," he said.

"I've—never seen you with a weapon." Aside from the dagger he'd grabbed to slit Amarantha's throat at the end—to spare me from agony.

"Cassian would laugh himself hoarse hearing that. And then make me go into the sparring ring with him."

"Can he beat you?"

"Hand-to-hand combat? Yes. He'd have to earn it for a change, but he'd win." No arrogance, no pride. "Cassian is the best warrior I've encountered in any court, any land. He leads my armies because of it."

I didn't doubt his claim. And the other Illyrian … "Azriel—his hands. The scars, I mean," I said. "Where did they come from?"

Rhys was quiet a moment. Then he said too softly, "His father had two legitimate sons, both older than Azriel. Both cruel and spoiled. They learned it from their mother, the lord's wife. For the eleven years that Azriel lived in his father's keep, she saw to it he was kept in a cell with no window, no light. They let him out for an hour every day—let him see his mother for an hour once a week. He wasn't permitted to train, or fly, or any of the things his Illyrian instincts roared at him to do. When he was eight, his brothers decided it'd be fun to see what happened when you mixed an Illyrian's quick healing gifts with oil—and fire. The warriors heard Azriel's screaming. But not quick enough to save his hands."

Nausea swamped me. But that still left him with three more years living with them. What other horrors had he endured before he was sent to that mountain-camp? "Were—were his brothers punished?"

Rhys's face was as unfeeling as the rock and wind and sea around us as he said with lethal quiet, "Eventually."

There was enough rawness in the words that I instead asked, "And Mor—what does she do for you?"

"Mor is who I'll call in when the armies fail and Cassian and Azriel are both dead."

My blood chilled. "So she's supposed to wait until then?"

"No. As my Third, Mor is my … court overseer. She looks after the dynamics between the Court of Nightmares and the Court of Dreams, and runs both Velaris and the Hewn City. I suppose in the mortal realm, she might be considered a queen."

"And Amren?"

"Her duties as my Second make her my political adviser, walking library, and doer of my dirty work. I appointed her upon gaining my throne. But she was my ally, maybe my friend, long before that."

"I mean—in that imaginary war where your armies fail and Cassian and Azriel are dead, and even Mor is gone." Each word was like ice on my tongue that would never happen. Hopefully.

Rhys paused his reach for the bald rock face before us. "If that day comes, I'll find a way to break the spell on Amren and unleash her on the world. And ask her to end me first."

By the Mother. "What is she?" After our chat this morning, perhaps it was stupid to ask.

"Something else. Something worse than us. And if she ever finds a way to shed her prison of flesh and bone … Cauldron save us all."

I shivered again and stared up at the sheer stone wall. "I can't climb bare rock like that."

"You don't need to," Rhys said, laying a hand flat on the stone. Like a mirage, it vanished in a ripple of light.

Pale, carved gates stood in its place, so high their tops were lost to the mist.

Gates of bone.

The bone-gates swung open silently, revealing a cavern of black so inky I had never seen its like, even Under the Mountain.

Rhys put a warm hand on my back and guided me inside, three balls of moonlight bobbing before us.

"Breathe," he said in my ear. "One breath."

"Where are the guards?" I managed to get out past the tightness in my lungs.

"They dwell within the rock of the mountain," he murmured, his hand finding mine and wrapping around it as he tugged me into the immortal gloom. "They only emerge at feeding time, or to deal with restless prisoners. They are nothing but shadows of thought and an ancient spell."

With the small lights floating ahead, I tried not to look too long at the gray walls. Especially when they were so rough-hewn that the jagged bits could have been a nose, or a craggy brow, or a set of sneering lips.

The dry ground was clear of anything but pebbles. And there was silence. Utter silence as we rounded a bend, and the last of the light from the misty world faded into inky black.

The path plunged deep into the belly of the mountain, and I clutched Rhys's fingers to keep from losing my footing. He still had his sword gripped in his other hand.

"Do all the High Lords have access?" My words were so soft they were devoured by the dark. Even that thrumming power in my veins had vanished, burrowing somewhere in my bones.

"No. The Prison is law unto itself; the island may be even an eighth court. But it falls under my jurisdiction, and my blood is keyed to the gates."

"Could you free the inmates?"

"No. Once the sentence is given and a prisoner passes those gates … They belong to the Prison. It will never let them out. I take sentencing people here very, very seriously."

"Have you ever—"

"Yes. And now is not the time to speak of it." He squeezed my hand in emphasis.I wanted to know what that meant.. probably told in the 4th/5th/6th nooks.

We wound down through the gloom.

There were no doors. No lights.

No sounds. Not even a trickle of water.

But I could feel them.

I could feel them sleeping, pacing, running hands and claws over the other side of the walls.

They were ancient, and cruel in a way I had never known, not even with Amarantha. They were infinite, and patient, and had learned the language of darkness, of stone.

"How long," I breathed. "How long was she in here?" I didn't dare say her name.

"Azriel looked once. Into archives in our oldest temples and libraries. All he found was a vague mention that she went in before Prythian was split into the courts—and emerged once they had been established. Her imprisonment predates our written word. I don't know how long she was in here—a few millennia seems like a fair guess."

Horror roiled in my gut. "You never asked?"

"Why bother? She'll tell me when it's necessary."

"Where did she come from?" The brooch he'd given her—such a small gift, for a monster who had once dwelled here.

"I don't know. Though there are legends that claim when the world was born, there were … rips in the fabric of the realms. That in the chaos of Forming, creatures from other worlds could walk through one of those rips and enter another world. But the rips closed at will, and the creatures could become trapped, with no way home."

It was more horrifying than I could fathom—both that monsters had walked between worlds, and the terror of being trapped in another realm. "You think she was one of them?"

"I think that she is the only one of her kind, and there is no record of others ever having existed. Even the Suriel have numbers, however small. But she—and some of those in the Prison … I think they came from somewhere else. And they have been looking for a way home for a long, long time."

I was shivering beneath the fur-lined leather, my breath clouding in front of me.

Down and down we went, and time lost its grip. It could have been hours or days, and we paused only when my useless, wasted body demanded water. Even while I drank, he didn't let go of my hand. As if the rock would swallow me up forever. I made sure those breaks were swift and rare.

And still we went onward, deeper. Only the lights and his hand kept me from feeling as if I were about to free-fall into darkness. For a heartbeat, the reek of my own dungeon cell cloyed in my nose, and the crunch of moldy hay tickled my cheek—

Rhys's hand tightened on my own. "Just a bit farther."

"We must be near the bottom by now."

"Past it. The Bone Carver is caged beneath the roots of the mountain."

"Who is he? What is he?" I'd only been briefed in what I was to say—nothing of what to expect. No doubt to keep me from panicking too thoroughly.

"No one knows. He'll appear as he wants to appear."

"Shape-shifter?"

"Yes and no. He'll appear to you as one thing, and I might be standing right beside you and see another."

"And the bone carving?"

"You'll see." Rhys stopped before a smooth slab of stone. The hall continued down—down into the ageless dark. The air here was tight, compact. Even my puffs of breath on the chill air seemed short-lived.

Rhysand at last released my hand, only to lay his once more on the bare stone. It rippled beneath his palm, forming—a door.

Like the gates above, it was of ivory—bone. And in its surface were etched countless images: flora and fauna, seas and clouds, stars and moons, infants and skeletons, creatures fair and foul—

It swung away. The cell was pitch-black, hardly distinguishable from the hall—

"I have carved the doors for every prisoner in this place," said a small voice within, "but my own remains my favorite."

"I'd have to agree," Rhysand said. He stepped inside, the light bobbing ahead to illuminate a dark-haired boy sitting against the far wall, eyes of crushing blue taking in Rhysand, then sliding to where I lurked in the future son..

Rhys reached into a bag I hadn't realized he'd been carrying—no, one he'd summoned from whatever pocket between realms he used for storage. He chucked an object toward the boy, who looked no more than eight. White gleamed as it clacked on the rough stone floor. Another bone, long and sturdy—and jagged on one end.

"The calf-bone that made the final kill when Feyre slew the Middengard Wyrm," Rhys said.

My very blood stilled. There had been many bones that I'd laid in my trap—I hadn't noticed which had ended the Wyrm. Or thought anyone would.

"Come inside," was all the Bone Carver said, and there was no innocence, no kindness in that child's voice.

I took one step in and no more.

"It has been an age," the boy said, gobbling down the sight of me, "since something new came into this world."

"Hello," I breathed.

The boy's smile was a mockery of innocence. "Are you frightened?"

"Yes," I said. Never lie—that had been Rhys's first command.

The boy stood, but kept to the other side of the cell. "Feyre," he murmured, cocking his head. The orb of faelight glazed the inky hair in silver. "Fay-ruh," he said again, drawing out the syllables as if he could taste them. At last, he straightened his head. "Where did you go when you died?"

"A question for a question," I replied, as I'd been instructed over breakfast.

The Bone Carver inclined his head to Rhysand. "You were always smarter than your forefathers." But those eyes alighted on me. "Tell me where you went, what you saw—and I will answer your question."

Rhys gave me a subtle nod, but his eyes were wary. Because what the boy had asked …

I had to calm my breathing to think—to remember.

But there was blood and death and pain and screaming—and she was breaking me, killing me so slowly, and Rhys was there, roaring in fury as I died, Tamlin begging for my life on his knees before her throne … But there was so much agony, and I wanted it to be over, wanted it all to stop—

Rhys had gone rigid while he monitored the Bone Carver, as if those memories were freely flowing past the mental shields I'd made sure were intact this morning. And I wondered if he thought I'd give up then and there.

I bunched my hands into fists.

I had lived; I had gotten out. I would get out today.

"I heard the crack," I said. Rhys's head whipped toward me. "I heard the crack when she broke my neck. It was in my ears, but also inside my skull. I was gone before I felt anything more than the first lash of pain."

The Bone Carver's violet eyes seemed to glow brighter.

"And then it was dark. A different sort of dark than this place. But there was a … thread," I said. "A tether. And I yanked on it—and suddenly I could see. Not through my eyes, but—but his," I said, inclining my head toward Rhys. I uncurled the fingers of my tattooed hand. "And I knew I was dead, and this tiny scrap of spirit was all that was left of me, clinging to the thread of our bargain."Mating bond...

"But was there anyone there—were you seeing anything beyond?"

"There was only that bond in the darkness."

Rhysand's face had gone pale, his mouth a tight line. "And when I was Made anew," I said, "I followed that bond back—to me. I knew that home was on the other end of it. There was light then. Like swimming up through sparkling wine—"

"Were you afraid?"

"All I wanted was to return to—to the people around me. I wanted it badly enough I didn't have room for fear. The worst had happened, and the darkness was calm and quiet. It did not seem like a bad thing to fade into. But I wanted to go home. So I followed the bond home."

"There was no other world," the Bone Carver pushed.

"If there was or is, I did not see it."

"No light, no portal?"

Where is it that you want to go? The question almost leaped off my tongue. "It was only peace and darkness."

"Did you have a body?"

"No."

"Did—"

"That's enough from you," Rhysand purred—the sound like velvet over sharpest steel. "You said a question for a question. Now you've asked … " He did a tally on his fingers. "Six."

The Bone Carver leaned back against the wall and slid to a sitting position. "It is a rare day when I meet someone who comes back from true death. Forgive me for wanting to peer behind the curtain." He waved a delicate hand in my direction. "Ask it, girl."

"If there was no body—nothing but perhaps a bit of bone," I said as solidly as I could, "would there be a way to resurrect that person? To grow them a new body, put their soul into it."

Those eyes flashed. "Was the soul somehow preserved? Contained?"

I tried not to think about the eye ring Amarantha had worn, the soul she'd trapped inside to witness her every horror and depravity. "Yes."

"There is no way."

I almost sighed in relief.

"Unless … " The boy bounced each finger off his thumb, his hand like some pale, twitchy insect. "Long ago, before the High Fae, before man, there was a Cauldron … They say all the magic was contained inside it, that the world was born in it. But it fell into the wrong hands. And great and horrible things were done with it. Things were forged with it. Such wicked things that the Cauldron was eventually stolen back at great cost. It could not be destroyed, for it had Made all things, and if it were broken, then life would cease to be. So it was hidden. And forgotten. Only with that Cauldron could something that is dead be reforged like that."

Rhysand's face was again a mask of calm. "Where did they hide it?"

"Tell me a secret no one knows, Lord of Night, and I'll tell you mine."

I braced myself for whatever horrible truth was about to come my way. But Rhysand said, "My right knee gets a twinge of pain when it rains. I wrecked it during the War, and it's hurt ever since."

The Bone Carver bit out a harsh laugh, even as I gaped at Rhys. "You always were my favorite," he said, giving a smile I would never for a moment think was childlike. "Very well. The Cauldron was hidden at the bottom of a frozen lake in Lapplund—" Rhys began to turn for me, as if he'd head there right now, but the Bone Carver added, "And vanished a long, long time ago." Rhys halted. "I don't know where it went to—or where it is now. Millennia before you were born, the three feet on which it stands were successfully cleaved from its base in an attempt to fracture some of its power. It worked—barely. Removing the feet was like cutting off the first knuckle of a finger. Irksome, but you could still use the rest with some difficulty. The feet were hidden at three different temples—Cesere, Sangravah, and Itica. If they have gone missing, it is likely the Cauldron is active once more—and that the wielder wants it at full power and not a wisp of it missing."

That was why the temples had been ransacked. To get the feet on which the Cauldron stood and restore it to its full power. Rhys merely said, "I don't suppose you know who now has the Cauldron."

The Bone Carver pointed a small finger at me. "Promise that you'll give me her bones when she dies and I'll think about it." I stiffened, but the boy laughed. "No—I don't think even you would promise that, Rhysand."

I might have called the look on Rhys's face a warning. "Thank you for your help," he said, placing a hand on my back to guide me out.

But if he knew … I turned again to the boy-creature. "There was a choice—in Death," I said.

Those eyes guttered with cobalt fire.

Rhys's hand contracted on my back, but remained. Warm, steady. And I wondered if the touch was more to reassure him that I was there, still breathing.

"I knew," I went on, "that I could drift away into the dark. And I chose to fight—to hold on for a bit longer. Yet I knew if I wanted, I could have faded. And maybe it would be a new world, a realm of rest and peace. But I wasn't ready for it—not to go there alone. I knew there was something else waiting beyond that dark. Something good."

For a moment, those blue eyes flared brighter. Then the boy said, "You know who has the Cauldron, Rhysand. Who has been pillaging the temples. You only came here to confirm what you have long guessed."

"The King of Hybern."

Dread sluiced through my veins and pooled in my stomach. I shouldn't have been surprised, should have known, but …

The carver said nothing more. Waiting for another truth.

So I offered up another shattered piece of me. "When Amarantha made me kill those two faeries, if the third hadn't been Tamlin, I would have put the dagger in my own heart at the end."

Rhys went still.

"I knew there was no coming back from what I'd done," I said, wondering if the blue flame in the carver's eyes might burn my ruined soul to ash. "And once I broke their curse, once I knew I'd saved them, I just wanted enough time to turn that dagger on myself. I only decided I wanted to live when she killed me, and I knew I had not finished whatever … whatever it was I'd been born to do."

I dared a glance at Rhys, and there was something like devastation on his beautiful face. It was gone in a blink.I knew what was running through his head, to come close to losing his mate...

Even the Bone Carver said gently, "With the Cauldron, you could do other things than raise the dead. You could shatter the wall."

The only thing keeping human lands—my family—safe from not just Hybern, but any other faeries.

"It is likely that Hybern has been quiet for so many years because he was hunting the Cauldron, learning its secrets. Resurrection of a specific individual might very well have been his first test once the feet were reunited—and now he finds that the Cauldron is pure energy, pure power. And like any magic, it can be depleted. So he will let it rest, let it gather strength—learn its secrets to feed it more energy, more power."

"Is there a way to stop it," I breathed.

Silence. Expectant, waiting silence.

Rhys's voice was hoarse as he said, "Don't offer him one more—"

"When the Cauldron was made," the carver interrupted, "its dark maker used the last of the molten ore to forge a book. The Book of Breathings. In it, written between the carved words, are the spells to negate the Cauldron's power—or control it wholly. But after the War, it was split into two pieces. One went to the Fae, one to the six human queens. It was part of the Treaty, purely symbolic, as the Cauldron had been lost for millennia and considered mere myth. The Book was believed harmless, because like calls to like—and only that which was Made can speak those spells and summon its power. No creature born of the earth may wield it, so the High Lords and humans dismissed it as little more than a historical heirloom, but if the Book were in the hands of something reforged … You would have to test such a theory, of course—but … it might be possible." His eyes narrowed to amused slits as I realized … realized …

"So now the High Lord of Summer possesses our piece, and the reigning mortal queens have the other entombed in their shining palace by the sea. Prythian's half is guarded, protected with blood-spells keyed to Summer himself. The one belonging to the mortal queens … They were crafty, when they received their gift. They used our own kind to spell the Book, to bind it—so that if it were ever stolen, if, let's say, a High Lord were to winnow into their castle to steal it … the Book would melt into ore and be lost. It must be freely given by a mortal queen, with no trickery, no magic involved." A little laugh. "Such clever, lovely creatures, humans."

The carver seemed lost in ancient memory—then shook his head. "Reunite both halves of the Book of Breathings and you will be able to nullify the powers of the Cauldron. Hopefully before it returns to full strength and shatters that wall."

I didn't bother saying thank you. Not with the information he'd told us. Not when I'd been forced to say those things—and could still feel Rhys's lingering attention. As if he'd suspected, but never believed just how badly I'd broken in that moment with Amarantha.

We turned away, his hand sliding from my back to grip my hand.

The touch was light—gentle. And I gripped it comfort and reassure.

The carver picked up the bone Rhysand had brought him and weighed it in those child's hands. "I shall carve your death in here, Feyre."

Up and up into the darkness we walked, through the sleeping stone and the monsters who dwelled within it. At last I said to Rhys, "What did you see?"

"You first."

"A boy—around eight; dark-haired and blue-eyed."

Rhys shuddered—the most human gesture I'd seen him make.

"What did you see?" I pushed.

"Jurian," Rhys said. "He appeared exactly as Jurian looked the last time I saw him: facing Amarantha when they fought to the death."

I didn't want to learn how the Bone Carver knew who we'd come to ask about.

CHAPTER

19

"Amren's right," Rhys drawled, leaning against the threshold of the town house sitting room. "You are like dogs, waiting for me to come home. Maybe I should buy treats."

Cassian gave him a vulgar gesture from where he lounged on the couch before the hearth, an arm slung over the back behind Mor. Though everything about his powerful, muscled body suggested someone at ease, there was a tightness in his jaw, a coiled-up energy that told me they'd been waiting here for a while.

Azriel lingered by the window, comfortably ensconced in shadows, a light flurry of snow dusting the lawn and street behind him. And Amren …

Nowhere to be seen.

Damp and cold from the mist and wind that chased us down from the Prison, I strode for the armchair across from the couch, which had been shaped, like so much of the furniture here, to accommodate Illyrian wings. I stretched my stiff limbs toward the fire, and stifled a groan at the delicious heat.

"How'd it go?" Mor said, straightening beside Cassian. No gown today—just practical black pants and a thick blue sweater.

"The Bone Carver," Rhys said, "is a busybody gossip who likes to pry into other people's business far too much."

"But?" Cassian demanded, bracing his arms on his knees, wings tucked in tight.

"But," Rhys said, "he can also be helpful, when he chooses. And it seems we need to start doing what we do best."

I flexed my numbed fingers, content to let them discuss, needing a moment to reel myself back in, to shut out what I'd revealed to the Bone Carver.

And what the Bone Carver suggested I might actually be asked to do with that book. The abilities I might have.

So Rhys told them of the Cauldron, and the reason behind the temple pillagings, to no shortage of swearing and questions—and revealed nothing of what I had admitted in exchange for the information. Azriel emerged from his wreathing shadows to ask the most questions; his face and voice remained unreadable. Cassian, surprisingly, kept quiet—as if the general understood that the shadowsinger would know what information was necessary, and was busy assessing it for his own forces.

When Rhys was done, his spymaster said, "I'll contact my sources in the Summer Court about where the half of the Book of Breathings is hidden. I can fly into the human world myself to figure out where they're keeping their part of the Book before we ask them for it."

"No need," Rhys said. "And I don't trust this information, even with your sources, with anyone outside of this room. Save for Amren."

"They can be trusted," Azriel said with quiet steel, his scarred hands clenching at his leather-clad sides.

"We're not taking risks where this is concerned," Rhys merely said. He held Azriel's stare, and I could almost hear the silent words Rhys added, It is no judgment or reflection on you, Az. Not at all.

But Azriel yielded no tinge of emotion as he nodded, his hands unfurling.

"So what do you have planned?" Mor cut in—perhaps for Az's sake.

Rhys picked an invisible piece of dirt off his fighting leathers. When he lifted his head, those violet eyes were glacial. "The King of Hybern sacked one of our temples to get a missing piece of the Cauldron. As far as I'm concerned, it's an act of war—an indication that His Majesty has no interest in wooing me."

"He likely remembers our allegiance to the humans in the War, anyway," Cassian said. "He wouldn't jeopardize revealing his plans while trying to sway you, and I bet some of Amarantha's cronies reported to him about Under the Mountain. About how it all ended, I mean." Cassian's throat bobbed.

When Rhys had tried to kill her. I lowered my hands from the fire.

Rhys said, "Indeed. But this means Hybern's forces have already successfully infiltrated our lands—without detection. I plan to return the favor."

Mother above. Cassian and Mor just grinned with feral delight. "How?" Mor asked.

Rhys crossed his arms. "It will require careful planning. But if the Cauldron is in Hybern, then to Hybern we must go. Either to take it back … or use the Book to nullify it.".

"Hybern likely has as many wards and shields around it as we have here," Azriel countered. "We'd need to find a way to get through them undetected first."

A slight nod. "Which is why we start now. While we hunt for the Book. So when we get both halves, we can move swiftly—before word can spread that we even possess it."

Cassian nodded, but asked, "How are you going to retrieve the Book, then?"

I braced myself as Rhys said, "Since these objects are spelled to the individual High Lords, and can only be found by them—through their power … Then, in addition to her uses regarding the handling of the Book of Breathings itself, it seems we possibly have our own detector."

Now they all looked at me.

I cringed. "Perhaps was what the Bone Carver said in regard to me being able to track things. You don't know … " My words faded as Rhys smirked.

"You have a kernel of all our power—like having seven thumbprints. If we've hidden something, if we've made or protected it with our power, no matter where it has been concealed, you will be able to track it through that very magic."

"You can't know that for sure," I tried again.

"No—but there is a way to test it." Rhys was still smiling.

"Here we go," Cassian grumbled. Mor gave Azriel a warning glare to tell him not to volunteer this time. The spymaster just gave her an incredulous look in return.

I might have lounged in my chair to watch their battle of wills had Rhys not said, "With your abilities, Feyre, you might be able to find the half of the Book at the Summer Court—and break the wards around it. But I'm not going to take the carver's word for it, or bring you there without testing you first. To make sure that when it counts, when we need to get that book, you—we do not fail. So we're going on another little trip. To see if you can find a valuable object of mine that I've been missing for a considerably long time."

"Shit," Mor said, plunging her hands into the thick folds of her knew , I realised.

"Where?" I managed to say.

It was Azriel who answered. "To the Weaver."

Rhys held up a hand as Cassian opened his mouth. "The test," he said, "will be to see if Feyre can identify the object of mine in the Weaver's trove. When we get to the Summer Court, Tarquin might have spelled his half of the Book to look different, feel different."

"By the Cauldron, Rhys," Mor snapped, setting both feet on the carpet. "Are you out of your—"

"Who is the Weaver?" I pushed.

"An ancient, wicked creature," Azriel said, and I surveyed the faint scars on his wings, his neck, and wondered how many such things he'd encountered in his immortal life. If they were any worse than the people who shared blood ties with him. "Who should remain unbothered," he added in Rhys's direction. "Find another way to test her abilities."

Rhys merely shrugged and looked to me. To let me choose. Always—it was always my choice with him these days. Yet he hadn't let me go back to the Spring Court during those two visits—because he knew how badly I needed to get away from it?

I gnawed on my lower lip, weighing the risks, waiting to feel any kernel of fear, of emotion. But this afternoon had drained any reserve of such things. "The Bone Carver, the Weaver … Can't you ever just call someone by a given name?"

Cassian chuckled, and Mor settled back in the sofa cushions.

Only Rhys, it seemed, understood that it hadn't entirely been a joke. His face was tight. Like he knew precisely how tired I was—how I knew I should be quaking at the thought of this Weaver, but after the Bone Carver, what I'd revealed to it … I could feel nothing at all.

Rhys said to me, "What about adding one more name to that list?"

I didn't particularly like the sound of that. Mor said as much.

"Emissary," Rhysand said, ignoring his cousin. "Emissary to the Night Court—for the human realm."

Azriel said, "There hasn't been one for five hundred years, Rhys."

"There also hasn't been a human-turned-immortal since then, either." Rhys met my gaze. "The human world must be as prepared as we are—especially if the King of Hybern plans to shatter the wall and unleash his forces upon them. We need the other half of the Book from those mortal queens—and if we can't use magic to influence them, then they're going to have to bring it to us."

More silence. On the street beyond the bay of windows, wisps of snow brushed past, dusting the cobblestones.

Rhys jerked his chin at me. "You are an immortal faerie—with a human heart. Even as such, you might very well set foot on the continent and be … hunted for it. So we set up a base in neutral territory. In a place where humans trust us—trust you, Feyre. And where other humans might risk going to meet with you. To hear the voice of Prythian after five centuries."

"My family's estate," I said.

"Mother's tits, Rhys," Cassian cut in, wings flaring wide enough to nearly knock over the ceramic vase on the side table next to him. "You think we can just take over her family's house, demand that of them?"

Nesta hadn't wanted any dealings with the Fae, and Elain was so gentle, so sweet … how could I bring them into this?

"The land," Mor said, reaching over to return the vase to its place, "will run red with blood, Cassian, regardless of what we do with her family. It is now a matter of where that blood will$flow—and how much will spill. How much human blood we can save."

And maybe it made me a cowardly fool, but I said, "The Spring Court borders the wall—"

"The wall stretches across the sea. We'll fly in offshore," Rhys said without so much as a blink. "I won't risk discovery from any court, though word might spread quickly enough once we're there. I know it won't be easy, Feyre, but if there's any way you could convince those queens—"

"I'll do it." I said. Clare Beddor's broken and nailed body flashed in my vision. Amarantha had been one of his commanders. Just one—of many. The King of Hybern had to be horrible beyond reckoning to be her master. If these people got their hands on my sisters … "They might not be happy about it, but I'll make Elain and Nesta do it."

I didn't have the nerve to ask Rhys if he could simply force my family to agree to help us if they refused. I wondered if his powers would work on Nesta when even Tamlin's glamour had failed against her steel mind.

"Then it's settled," Rhys said. None of them looked particularly happy. "Once Feyre darling returns from the Weaver, we'll bring Hybern to its knees."

Rhys and the others were gone that night—where, no one told me. But after the events of the day, I barely finished devouring the food Nuala and Cerridwen brought to my room before I tumbled into sleep.

I dreamed of a long, white bone, carved with horrifying accuracy: my face, twisted in agony and despair; the ash knife in my hand; a pool of blood leaking away from two corpses—

But I awoke to the watery light of winter dawn—my stomach full from the night before.

A mere minute after I'd risen to consciousness, Rhys knocked on my door. I'd barely granted him permission to enter before he stalked inside like a midnight wind, and chucked a belt hung with knives onto the foot of the bed.

"Hurry," he said, flinging open the doors of the armoire and yanking out my fighting leathers. He tossed them onto the bed, too. "I want to be gone before the sun is fully up."

"Why?" I said, pushing back the covers. No wings today.

"Because time is of the essence." He dug out my socks and boots. "Once the King of Hybern realizes that someone is searching for the Book of Breathings to nullify the powers of the Cauldron, then his agents will begin hunting for it, too."

"You suspected this for a while, though." I hadn't had the chance to discuss it with him last night. "The Cauldron, the king, the Book … You wanted it confirmed, but you were waiting for me."

"Had you agreed to work with me two months ago, I would have taken you right to the Bone Carver to see if he confirmed my suspicions about your talents. But things didn't go as planned."

No, they most certainly hadn't.

"The reading," I said, sliding my feet into fleece-lined, thick-soled slippers. "That's why you insisted on the lessons. So if your suspicions were true and I could harness the Book … I could actually read it—or any translation of whatever is inside." A book that old might very well be written in an entirely different language. A different alphabet.

"Again," he said, now striding for the dresser, "had you started to work with me, I would have told you why. I couldn't risk discovery otherwise." He paused with a hand on the knob. "You should have learned to read no matter what. But yes, when I told you it served my own purposes—it was because of this. Do you blame me for it?"

"No," I said, and meant it. "But I'd prefer to be notified of any future schemes."

"Duly noted." Rhys yanked open the drawers and pulled out my undergarments. He dangled the bits of midnight lace and chuckled. "I'm surprised you didn't demand Nuala and Cerridwen buy you something else."

I stalked to him, snatching the lace away. "You're drooling on the carpet." I slammed the bathing room door before he could respond.

He was waiting as I emerged, already warm within the fur-lined leather. He held up the belt of knives, and I studied the loops and straps. "No swords, no bow or arrows," he said. He'd worn his own Illyrian fighting leathers—that simple, brutal sword strapped down his spine.

"But knives are fine?"

Rhys knelt and spread wide the web of leather and steel, beckoning for me to stick a leg through one loop.

I did as instructed, ignoring the brush of his steady hands on my thighs as I stepped through the other loop, and he began tightening and buckling things. "She will not notice a knife, as she has knives in her cottage for eating and her work. But things that are out of place—objects that have not been there … A sword, a bow and arrow … She might sense those things."

"What about me?"

He tightened a strap. Strong, capable hands—so at odds with the finery he usually wore to dazzle the rest of the world into thinking he was something else entirely. "Do not make a sound, do not touch anything but the object she took from me."

Rhys looked up, hands braced on my thighs.

Bow, he'd once ordered Tamlin. And now here he was, on his knees before me. His eyes glinted as if he remembered it, too. Had that been a part of his game—that façade? Or had it been vengeance for the horrible blood feud between them?

"If we're correct about your powers," he said, "if the Bone Carver wasn't lying to us, then you and the object will have the same … imprint, thanks to the preserving spells I placed on it long ago. You are one and the same. She will not notice your presence so long as you touch only it. You will be invisible to her."

"She's blind?"

A nod. "But her other senses are lethal. So be quick, and quiet. Find the object and run out, Feyre." His hands lingered on my legs, wrapping around the back of them.

"And if she notices me?"

His hands tightened slightly. "Then we'll learn precisely how skilled you are."

Cruel, conniving bastard. I glared at him.

Rhys shrugged. "Would you rather I locked you in the House of Wind and stuffed you with food and made you wear fine clothes and plan my parties?"

No.

" not get this object yourself, if it's so important?"

"Because the Weaver knows me—and if I am caught, there would be a steep price. High Lords are not to interfere with her, no matter the direness of the situation. There are many treasures in her hoard, some she has kept for millennia. Most will never be retrieved—because the High Lords do not dare be caught, thanks to the laws that protect her, thanks to her wrath. Any thieves on their behalf … Either they do not return, or they are never sent, for fear of it leading back to their High Lord. But you … She does not know you. You belong to every court."

"So I'm your huntress and thief?"

His hands slid down to cup the backs of my knees as he said with a roguish grin, "You are my salvation, Feyre."Mate...

CHAPTER

20

Rhysand winnowed us into a wood that was older, more aware, than any place I'd been.

The gnarled beech trees were tightly woven together, splattered and draped so thoroughly with moss and lichen that it was nearly impossible to see the bark beneath.

"Where are we?" I breathed, hardly daring to whisper.

Rhys kept his hands within casual reach of his weapons. "In the heart of Prythian, there is a large, empty territory that divides the North and South. At the center of it is our sacred mountain."

My heart stumbled, and I focused on my steps through the ferns and moss and roots. "This forest," Rhys went on, "is on the eastern edge of that neutral territory. Here, there is no High Lord. Here, the law is made by who is strongest, meanest, most cunning. And the Weaver of the Wood is at the top of their food chain."

The trees groaned—though there was no breeze to shift them. No, the air here was tight and stale. "Amarantha didn't wipe them out?"

"Amarantha was no fool," Rhys said, his face dark. "She did not touch these creatures or disturb the wood. For years, I tried to find ways to manipulate her to make that foolish mistake, but she never bought it."

"And now we're disturbing her—for a mere test."

He chuckled, the sound bouncing off the gray stones strewn across the forest floor like scattered marbles. "Cassian tried to convince me last night not to take you. I thought he might even punch me."

"Why?" I barely knew him.

"Who knows? With Cassian, he's probably more interested in fucking you than protecting you." True.. But the weaver was death.. and cassian had known.

"You could, you know," Rhys said, holding up the branch of a scrawny beech for me to slip under. "If you needed to move on in a physical sense, I'm sure Cassian would be more than happy to oblige."

It felt like a test in probably was, to see if I loved him.. or wanted cassian instead. And it pissed me off enough that I crooned, "Then tell him to come to my room tonight, and I'll kick his ass to hell and back."

"If you survive this test."

I paused atop a little lichen-crusted rock. "You seem pleased by the idea that I won't."No he didn't, but I was bored.. and in a way testing him for the truth.

"Quite the opposite, Feyre." He prowled to where I stood on the stone. I was almost eye level with him. The forest went even quieter—the trees seeming to lean closer, as if to catch every word. "I'll let Cassian know you're … open to his advances."

"Good," I said. A bit of hollowed-out air pushed against me, like a flicker of night. That power along my bones and blood stirred in answer.

I made to jump off the stone, but he gripped my chin, the movement too fast to detect. His words were a lethal caress as he said, "Did you enjoy the sight of me kneeling before you?"

I knew he could hear my heart as it ratcheted into a thunderous beat. I gave a cocky smile and raise a brow, yanking my chin out of his touch and leaping off the stone. I might have aimed for his feet. And he might have shifted out of the way just enough to avoid it. "Isn't that all you males are good for, anyway?" the words were cocky and said with a slight swagger.

His answering smile evoked silken sheets and jasmine-scented breezes at midnight.

A dangerous line—one Rhys was forcing me to walk to keep me from thinking about what I was about to face, about what a wreck I was inside.

Anger, this … flirtation, annoyance … He knew those were my crutches.

What I was about to encounter, then, must be truly harrowing if he wanted me going in there mad—thinking about sex, about anything but the Weaver of the Wood.

"Nice try," I said with an innocent smile. Rhysand just shrugged and swaggered off into the trees ahead.

Yes, it had been to distract me, but—

I walked after him as silently as I could. Not wanting to disturb any creatures.

A small, whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof and half-crumbling chimney sat in the center. Ordinary—almost mortal. There was even a well, its bucket perched on the stone lip, and a wood pile beneath one of the round windows of the cottage. No sound or light within—not even smoke puffed from the chimney.

The few birds in the forest fell quiet. Not entirely, but to keep their chatter to a minimum. And—there.

Faint, coming from inside the cottage, was a pretty, steady humming.

It might have been the sort of place I would have stopped if I were thirsty, or hungry, or in need of shelter for the night.

Maybe that was the trap.

The trees around the clearing, so close that their branches nearly clawed at the thatched roof, might very well have been the bars of a cage.

Rhys inclined his head toward the cottage, bowing with dramatic grace.

In, out—don't make a sound. Find whatever object it was and snatch it from beneath a blind person's nose.

And then run like hell.

Mossy earth paved the way to the front door, already cracked slightly. A bit of cheese. And I was the foolish mouse about to fall for it.

Eyes twinkling, Rhys mouthed, Good luck.

I gave him a vulgar gesture and slowly, silently made my way toward the front door.

The woods seemed to monitor each of my steps. When I glanced behind, Rhys was gone.

He hadn't said if he'd interfere if I were in mortal peril. I probably should have asked.

I avoided any leaves and stones, falling into a pattern of movement that some part of my body—some part that was not born of the High Lords—remembered.

Like waking up. That's what it felt like.

I passed the well. Not a speck of dirt, not a stone out of place. A perfect, pretty trap, that mortal part of me warned. A trap designed from a time when humans were prey; now laid for a smarter, immortal sort of game.

I was not prey any longer, I decided as I eased up to that door.

And I was not a mouse.

I was a wolf.

I listened on the threshold, the rock worn as if many, many boots had passed through—and perhaps never passed back over again. The words of her song became clear now, her voice sweet and beautiful, like sunlight on a stream:

"There were two sisters, they went playing,

To see their father's ships come sailing …

And when they came unto the sea-brim

The elder did push the younger in."

A honeyed voice, for an ancient, horrible song. I'd heard it before—slightly different, but sung by humans who had no idea that it had come from faerie throats.

I listened for another moment, trying to hear anyone else. But there was only a clatter and thrum of some sort of device, and the Weaver's song.

"Sometimes she sank, and sometimes she swam,

'Til her corpse came to the miller's dam."

My breath was tight in my chest, but I kept it even—directing it through my mouth in silent breaths. I eased open the front door, just an inch.

No squeak—no whine of rusty hinges. Another piece of the pretty trap: practically inviting thieves in. I peered inside when the door had opened wide enough.

A large main room, with a small, shut door in the back. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, crammed with bric-a-brac: books, shells, dolls, herbs, pottery, shoes, crystals, more books, jewels … From the ceiling and wood rafters hung all manner of chains, dead birds, dresses, ribbons, gnarled bits of wood, strands of pearls …

A junk shop—of some immortal hoarder.

And that hoarder …

In the gloom of the cottage, there sat a large spinning wheel, cracked and dulled with age.

And before that ancient spinning wheel, her back to me, sat the Weaver.

Her thick hair was of richest onyx, tumbling down to her slender waist as she worked the wheel, snow-white hands feeding and pulling the thread around a thorn-sharp spindle.

She looked young—her gray gown simple but elegant, sparkling faintly in the dim forest light through the windows as she sang in a voice of glittering gold:

"But what did he do with her breastbone?

He made him a viol to play on.

What'd he do with her fingers so small?

He made pegs to his viol withall."

The fiber she fed into the wheel was white—soft. Like wool, but … I knew, in that lingering human part of me, it was not wool. I knew that I did not want to learn what creature it had come from, who she was spinning into thread.A fae life strand perhaps.

Because on the shelf directly beyond her were cones upon cones of threads—of every color and texture. And on the shelf adjacent to her were swaths and yards of that woven thread—woven, I realized, on the massive loom nearly hidden in the darkness near the hearth. The Weaver's loom.

I had come on spinning day—would she have been singing if I had come on weaving day instead? From the strange, fear-drenched scent that came from those bolts of fabric, I already knew the answer.

A wolf. I was a wolf.

I stepped into the cottage, careful of the scattered debris on the earthen floor. She kept working, the wheel clattering so merrily, so at odds with her horrible song:

"And what did he do with her nose-ridge?

Unto his viol he made a bridge.

What did he do with her veins so blue?

He made strings to his viol thereto."

I scanned the room, trying not to listen to the lyrics.

Nothing. I felt … nothing that might pull me toward one object in particular. Perhaps it would be a blessing if I were indeed not the one to track the Book—if today was not the start of what was sure to be a slew of miseries.

The Weaver perched there, working.

I scanned the shelves, the ceiling. Borrowed time. I was on borrowed time, and I was almost out of it.

Had Rhys sent me on a fool's errand? Maybe there was nothing here. Maybe this object had been taken. It would be just like him to do that. To tease me in the woods, to see what sort of things might make my body react.

And maybe I resented Tamlin enough in that moment to enjoy that deadly bit of flirtation. Maybe I was as much a monster as the female spinning before me.

But if I was a monster, then I supposed Rhys was as well.

Rhys and I were one in the same—beyond the power that he'd given me. It'd be fitting if Tamlin hated me, too, once he realized I'd truly left.

I felt it, then—like a tap on my shoulder.

I pivoted, keeping one eye on the Weaver and the other on the room as I wove through the maze of tables and junk. Like a beacon, a bit of light laced with his half smile, it tugged me.

Hello, it seemed to say. Have you come to claim me at last?

Yes—yes, I wanted to say. Even as part of me wished it were otherwise.

The Weaver sang behind me,

"What did he do with her eyes so bright?

On his viol he set at first light.

What did he do with her tongue so rough?

'Twas the new till and it spoke enough."

I followed that pulse—toward the shelf lining the wall beside the hearth. Nothing. And nothing on the second. But the third, right above my eyeline … There.

I could almost smell his salt-and-citrus scent. The Bone Carver had been correct.

I rose on my toes to examine the shelf. An old letter knife, books in leather that I did not want to touch or smell; a handful of acorns, a tarnished crown of ruby and jasper, and—

A ring.

A ring of twisted strands of gold and silver, flecked with pearl, and set with a stone of deepest, solid blue. Sapphire—but different. I'd never seen a sapphire like that, even at my father's offices. This one … I could have sworn that in the pale light, the lines of a six-pointed star radiated across the round, opaque surface.

Rhys—this had Rhys written all over it.

He'd sent me here for a ring?

The Weaver sang,

"Then bespake the treble string,

'O yonder is my father the king.'"

I watched her for another heartbeat, gauging the distance between the shelf and the open door. Grab the ring, and I could be gone in a heartbeat. Quick, quiet, calm.

"Then bespake the second string,

'O yonder sits my mother the queen.' "

I dropped a hand toward one of the knives strapped to my thighs. When I got back to Rhys, maybe I'd stab him in the gut.

That fast, the memory of phantom blood covered my hands. I knew how it'd feel to slide my dagger through his skin and bones and flesh. Knew how the blood would dribble out, how he'd groan in pain—

I shut out the thought, even as I could feel the blood of those faeries soaking that human part of me that hadn't died and belonged to no one but my miserable self.

"Then bespake the strings all three,

'Yonder is my sister that drowned me.' "

My hand was quiet as a final, dying breath as I plucked the ring from the shelf.

The Weaver stopped singing.

CHAPTER

21

I froze, the ring now in the pocket of my jacket. She'd finished the last song—maybe she'd start another.

Maybe.

The spinning wheel slowed.

I backed a step toward the door. Then another.

Slower and slower, each rotation of the ancient wheel longer than the last.

Only ten steps to the door.

Five.

The wheel went round, one last time, so slow I could see each of the spokes.

Two.

I turned for the door as she lashed out with a white hand, gripping the wheel and stopping it wholly.

The door before me snicked shut.

I lunged for the handle, but there was none.

Window. Get to the window—

"Who is in my house?" she said softly.

Fear—undiluted, unbroken fear—slammed into me, and I remembered. I remembered what it was to be human and helpless and weak. I remembered what it was to want to fight to live, to be willing to do anything to stay breathing—Iron. I was iron, unmoving, unbreakable. Iron.

I reached the window beside the door. Sealed. No latch, no opening. Just glass that was not glass. Solid and impenetrable.

The Weaver turned her face toward me.

Wolf or mouse, it made no difference, because I became no more than an animal, sizing up my chance of survival.

"What are you?" she said in a voice that was so young and lovely. But false.

I was _not _going up that chimney, **GROSS! **But... I did kinda want to throw that gunk in his face...

"What is like all," she mused, taking one graceful step toward me, "but unlike all?"

I was a wolf.

And I bit when cornered.

I lunged for the sole candle burning on the table in the center of the room. And hurled it against the wall of woven thread—against all those miserable, dark bolts of fabric. Woven bodies, skins, lives. Let them be free.

Fire erupted, and the Weaver's shriek was so piercing I thought my head might shatter; thought my blood might boil in its veins.

She dashed for the flames, as if she'd put them out with those flawless white hands, her mouth of rotted teeth open and screaming like there was nothing but black hell inside her.

I hurtled for the door and yanked it open, shutting it behind me, and climbing onto the roof.

I grabbed a big handful of oil, hair and fat.

A tree branch hung low and close by, and I scrambled across that heinous roof, trying not to think about who and what I was stepping on. And how easily I could fall.A heartbeat later, I'd jumped onto the waiting branch, scrambling into the leaves and moss as the Weaver screamed, "WHERE ARE YOU?"

But I was running through the tree—running toward another one nearby. I leaped from branch to branch, bare hands tearing on the wood. Where was Rhysand?

Farther and farther I fled, her screams chasing me, though they grew ever-distant.

Where are you, where are you, where are you—

And then, lounging on a branch in a tree before me, one arm draped over the edge, Rhysand drawled, "What the hell did you do?"

I skidded to a stop, breathing raw. I thought my lungs might actually be bleeding.

"You," I chucked that handful at him. spluttered, staring at me with shocked wide violet eyes, the fat running down his face. And I gave him and innocent smile and said " payback time."

He only smirked slowly, and grabbed the fat on his face... And lobbed it at me. Hard. I dodged the brunt of it, but a bit still caught me on my neck sliding down.

But then he raised a finger to his lips and winnowed to me—grabbing my waist with one hand and cupping the back of my neck with his other as he spirited us away—

To Velaris. To just above the House of we had a massive fat/oil/hair fight.

We free-fell from the roof after 20 minutes, and I didn't have breath to scream as his wings appeared, spreading wide, and he curved us into a steady glide … right through the open windows of what had to be a war room. Cassian was there—in the middle of arguing with Amren about something.

Both froze as we landed on the red floor.

There was a mirror on the wall behind them, and I glimpsed myself long enough to know why they were gaping.

My face was scratched and I was covered in dirt and grease—boiled fat—and mortar dust, the hair stuck to me, and I smelled—

"You smell like barbecue," Amren said, cringing a bit.

Cassian loosened the hand he'd wrapped around the fighting knife at his thigh.


	22. Chapter 22

""You kill her?" Cassian said.  
"No," Rhys answered for me, loosely folding his wings. "But given how much the Weaver was screaming, I'm dying to know what Feyre darling did."  
"She … detected me somehow," I managed to say, tired in the absence of the adrenaline and excitement. "And locked the doors and windows. So I threw a candle at all the tapestries, and forced my way out the door." I added as Cassian's brows rose,  
Silence.  
Amren looked to Rhysand. "And where were you?"/p  
"Waiting, far enough away that she couldn't detect me."/p  
I raised a brow at him, " You could have helped me you know."  
"You survived," he said. "And found a way to help yourself." /p  
"That's what this was also about," I said with raised brows "Not just this ring," I reached into my pocket, putting the ring down on the table, my possible wedding ring..."or my abilities, but if I can master my panic."/p  
"Cassian swore again, his eyes on that ring./p  
"Amren shook her head, sheet of dark hair swaying. "Brutal, but effective."/p  
"Rhys only said, "Now you know. That you can use your abilities to hunt our objects, and thus track the Book at the Summer Court, and master yourself."/p  
"You're a prick, Rhysand," Cassian said quietly./p  
"Rhys merely tucked his wings in with a graceful snap. "You'd do the same."/p  
"Cassian shrugged, as if to say fine, he would./p  
"I looked at my hands, my nails bloody and cracked. And I said to Cassian, "I want you to teach me—how to fight. To get strong. If the offer to train still stands."/p  
"Cassian's brows rose, and he didn't bother looking to Rhys for approval. "You'll be calling me a prick pretty damn fast if we train. And I don't know anything about training humans—how breakable your bodies are. Were, I mean," he added with a wince. "We'll figure it out." /p  
"I don't want my only option to be running," I said./p  
"Running," Amren cut in, "kept you alive today."/p  
I ignored her. "I want to know how to fight my way out. I don't want to have to wait on anyone to rescue me." I faced Rhys, crossing my arms. "Well? Have I proved myself?"/p  
But he merely picked up the ring and gave me a nod of thanks. "It was my mother's ring." As if that were all the explanation and answers bells... Or mating in that cabin... NO DON'T GO THERE! I mentally yelled at myself and winced mentally./p  
"How'd you lose it?" I demanded./p  
"I didn't. My mother gave it to me as a keepsake, then took it back when I reached maturity—and gave it to the Weaver for safekeeping."/p  
"Why?"/p  
"So I wouldn't waste it."Not and idiocy and—I wanted a bath. I wanted quiet and a bath. Can I go and bathe now? This stuff isn't exactly comfortable you know.  
I'd barely looked at Rhys before he grabbed my hand, flared his wings, and had us soaring back through the windows. We free-fell for five thunderous, wild heartbeats before he winnowed to my bedroom in the town house. A hot bath was already running. I staggered to it, exhaustion hitting me like a physical blow, when Rhys said, "And what about training your other … gifts?"  
Through the rising steam from the tub, I said, "I think you and I would shred each other to bits."  
"Oh, we most definitely will." He leaned against the bathing room threshold. "But it wouldn't be fun otherwise. Consider our training now officially part of your work requirements with me." A jerk of the chin. "Go ahead—try to get past my shields."  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I knew which ones he was talking about. "I'm tired. The bath will go cold."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""I promise it'll be just as hot in a few moments. Or, if you mastered your gifts, you might be able to take care of that yourself."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I frowned. But took a step toward him, then another—making him yield a step, two, into the bedroom. /p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I held his stare, those violet eyes twinkling./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""You feel it, don't you," he said over the burbling and chittering garden birds. "Your power, stalking under your skin, purring in your ear."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""So what if I do?"/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"A shrug. "I'm surprised Ianthe didn't carve you up on an altar to see what that power looks like inside you."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""What, precisely, is your issue with her?"/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""I find the High Priestesses to be a perversion of what they once were—once promised to be. Ianthe among the worst of them."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"A knot twisted in my stomach. "Why do you say that?"/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Get past my shields and I'll show you."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"So that explained the turn in conversation. A taunt. Bait./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Holding his stare … I let myself fall for it. I let myself imagine that line between us—a bit of braided light … And there was his mental shield at the other end of the bond. Black and solid and impenetrable. No way in. However I'd slipped through before … I had no idea. "I've had enough tests for the day."I was tired to death./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Rhys crossed the two feet between us. "The High Priestesses have burrowed into a few of the courts—Dawn, Day, and Winter, mostly. They've entrenched themselves so thoroughly that their spies are everywhere, their followers near-fanatic with devotion. And yet, during those fifty years, they escaped. They remained hidden. I would not be surprised if Ianthe sought to establish a foothold in the Spring Court."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""You mean to tell me they're all black-hearted villains?"/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""No. Some, yes. Some are compassionate and selfless and wise. But there are some who are merely self-righteous … Though those are the ones that always seem the most dangerous to me."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""And Ianthe?"/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"A knowing sparkle in his eyes./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I shaped a spear with my power, but it apparently was too blunt as it as it almost went through... then bounced back./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"And yelped as it slammed against his inner shields, the reverberations echoing in me as surely as if I'd hit something with my body./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Rhys chuckled, and I saw fire. "Admirable—sloppy, but an admirable effort."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Panting a bit, I seethed./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"But he said, "Just for trying … ," and took my hand in his. The bond went taut, that thing under my skin pulsing, and—/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"There was dark, and the colossal sense of him on the other side of his mental barricade of black adamant. That shield went on forever, the product of half a millennia of being hunted, attacked, hated. And my heart broke for him, how he thought he had to sacrifice everything and would never get what emhe /emwanted.I brushed a mental hand against that wall./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Like a mountain cat arching into a touch, it seemed to purr—and then relaxed its guard./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"His mind opened for me. An antechamber, at least. A single space he'd carved out, to allow me to see—/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"A bedroom carved from obsidian; a mammoth bed of ebony sheets, large enough to accommodate wings./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"And on it, sprawled in nothing but her skin, lay Ianthe./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I reeled back, realizing it was a memory, and Ianthe was in his bed, in his court beneath that mountain, her full breasts peaked against the chill—/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""There is more," Rhys's voice said from far away as I struggled to pull out. But my mind slammed into the shield—the other side of it. /p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""You kept me waiting," Ianthe sulked./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"The sensation of hard, carved wood digging into my back—Rhysand's back—as he leaned against the bedroom door. "Get out."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Ianthe gave a little pout, bending her knee and shifting her legs wider, baring herself to him. "I see the way you look at me, High Lord."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""You see what you want to see," he—we—said. The door opened beside him. "Get out."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"A coy tilt of her lips. "I heard you like to play games." Her slender hand drifted low, trailing past her belly button. "I think you'll find me a diverting playmate."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Icy wrath crept through me—him—as he debated the merits of splattering her on the walls, and how much of an inconvenience it'd cause. She'd hounded him relentlessly—stalked the other males, too. Azriel had left last night because of it. And Mor was about one more comment away from snapping her neck./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""I thought your allegiance lay with other courts." His voice was so cold. The voice of the High Lord./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""My allegiance lies with the future of Prythian, with the true power in this land." Her fingers slid between her legs—and halted. Her gasp cleaved the room as he sent a tendril of power blasting for her, pinning that arm to the bed—away from herself. "Do you know what a union between us could do for Prythian, for the world?" she said, eyes devouring him still./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""You mean yourself."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Our offspring could rule Prythian."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Cruel amusement danced through him. "So you want my crown—and for me to play stud?"/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"She tried to writhe her body, but his power held her. "I don't see anyone else worthy of the position."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"She'd be a problem—now, and later. He knew it. Kill her now, end the threat before it began, face the wrath of the other High Priestesses, or … see what happened. "Get out of my bed. Get out of my room. And get out of my court." /p  
div class="bread_336x280" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;" /div  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;" /p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"He released his power's grip to allow her to do so./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Ianthe's eyes darkened, and she slithered to her feet, not bothering with her clothes, draped over his favorite chair. Each step toward him had her generous breasts bobbing. She stopped barely a foot away. "You have no idea what I can make you feel, High Lord."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"She reached a hand for him, right between his legs./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"His power lashed around her fingers before she could grab him./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"He crunched the power down, twisting./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Ianthe screamed. She tried backing away, but his power froze her in place—so much power, so easily controlled, roiling around her, contemplating ending her existence like an asp surveying a mouse./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Rhys leaned close to breathe into her ear, "Don't ever touch me. Don't ever touch another male in my court." His power snapped bones and tendons, and she screamed again. "Your hand will heal," he said, stepping back. "The next time you touch me or anyone in my lands, you will find that the rest of you will not fare so well."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Tears of agony ran down her face—the effect wasted by the hatred lighting her eyes. "You will regret this," she hissed./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"He laughed softly, a lover's laugh, and a flicker of power had her thrown onto her ass in the hallway. Her clothes followed a heartbeat later. Then the door slammed./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Like a pair of scissors through a taut ribbon, the memory was severed, the shield behind me fell, and I stumbled back, blinking./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Rule one," Rhys told me, his eyes glazed with the rage of that memory, "don't go into someone's mind unless you hold the way open. A daemati might leave their minds spread wide for you—and then shut you inside, turn you into their willing slave."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"A chill went down my spine at the thought. But what he'd shown me …/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Rule two," he said, his face hard as stone, "when—"/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""When was that," I blurted. I knew him well enough not to doubt its truth. "When did that happen between you?"/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"The ice remained in his eyes. "A hundred years ago. At the Court of Nightmares. I allowed her to visit after she'd begged for years, insisting she wanted to build ties between the Night Court and the priestesses. I'd heard rumors about her nature, but she was young and untried, and I hoped that perhaps a new High Priestess might indeed be the change her order needed. It turned out that she was already well trained by some of her less-benevolent sisters."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I swallowed hard, my heart thundering. "She—she didn't act that way at …"/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Lucien./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Lucien had hated her. Had made vague, vicious allusions to not liking her, to being approached by her—/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I was going to throw up. Had she … had she pursued him like that? Had he … had he been forced to say yes because of her position?/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""Rule two," Rhys finally went on, "be prepared to see things you might not like."/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Only fifty years later, Amarantha had come. And done exactly to Rhys what he'd wanted to kill Ianthe for. He'd let it happen to him. To keep them safe. To keep Azriel and Cassian from the nightmares that would haunt him forever, from enduring any more pain than what they'd suffered as children …Always him, always sacrificing./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I lifted my head to ask him more. But Rhys had vanished./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Alone, I peeled off my clothes, struggling with the buckles and straps he'd put on me—when had it been? An hour or two ago?/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"It felt as if a lifetime had passed. And I was now a certified Book-tracker, it seemed./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Better than a party-planning wife for breeding little High Lords. What Ianthe had wanted to make me—to serve whatever agenda she had./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"The bath was indeed hot, as he'd promised. And I mulled over what he'd shown me, seeing that hand again and again reach between his legs, the ownership and arrogance in that gesture—/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"I shut out the memory, the bath water suddenly cold./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"CHAPTER/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"22/p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;"Word still hadn't come from the Summer Court the following morning, so Rhysand made good on his decision to bring us to the mortal realm./p  
p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 15px auto 10px; padding: 0px; caret-color: #3c3c3c; color: #3c3c3c; font-family: arial, tahoma, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 1.5 !important;""What does one wear, exactly, in the human lands?" Mor said from where she sprawled across the foot of my bed. For someone who claimed to have been out drinking and dancing until the Mother knew when, she appeared unfairly perky. Cassian and Azriel, grumbling and wincing over breakfast, had looked like they'd been run over by wagons. Repeatedly. Some small part of me wondered what it would be like to go out with them—to see what Velaris might offer at night./p


End file.
